


Through hardships, to the stars

by ShadowOfHapiness



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: (It just takes him a while to accept them), (Let's torture the cinnamon roll), Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Emotions are essentially shared between souls, Empathy Bond, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Rape/Non-con Elements, Soul Bond, Violence, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-02-23 10:06:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 58,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23443084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadowOfHapiness/pseuds/ShadowOfHapiness
Summary: When two souls are bound together, it's for life. They learn, then, to freely share things from the most intimate of thoughts to the most heartfelt of emotions with one another, a careful balance made possible by their equal nature.Like everyone on the Continent, Geralt was born with a soulmark on his wrist. Like all Witchers, he'd long ago learnt to strip himself of his feelings and gave up on ever finding his other half, for tales of soulmates had no place amongst his kind.His soul mark, however, has other ideas, and as Geralt makes the decision to embark upon a journey to get reacquaintanced with the vestiges of his emotions, he is given a rare gift: the life of a Witcher whose heart still bloomed with sentiment, and another soul to share it with if he so desires.Along the way, life decides to let them meet, and Geralt soon realizes that they may not be quite as estranged as he'd thought.Circumstances, however, could not have made for aworsereunion.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion/Vattier de Rideaux
Comments: 56
Kudos: 271





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> Just a warning before you might read, this work will likely include sensitive topics such as rape/non-con, emotional and psychological abuse, a lot of hurt and general unpleasantness (I'm a horrible person who likes hurting characters who don't deserve it), but ultimately a happy ending, I hope.
> 
> This is my first time I'm writing anything for the Witcher, my knowledge is purely based on the show (which has taken me completely by surprise, i love it!) and a little Wiki searching. Forgive me if some of the characters are a little ooc (Rideaux will likely be completely unredeemable for instance).
> 
> If you're still game though, read on! :)

Witchers didn’t have feelings.

Such was a universal truth for Witchers, one of the earliest Geralt remembered learning when he’d first been left at the School of the Wolf in Kaer Morhen, a lesson that had come in the shape of too many bruises on his still fragile skin and an a constant ache in his chest, and yet despite it all, he’d stubbornly remained an anomaly to all there. Granted, his mark was not uncommon –even Witchers had the misfortune of being bound to a soulmate- it just so happened that Geralt’s never turned out to be another Witcher. An outcast right back to his earliest days, it did not change much throughout his life, later becoming one amongst humans as well, cursed to forever exist on the edge of their lives, forever an outsider looking in, nothing more than an apathetic monster who slayed other monsters for coin. Except that Geralt _did_ feel, just a little, because damn the mark on his wrist ached insufferably more often than not, these days.

It was rather inconvenient, to feel, especially when one lead the perilous and reclusive life of a Witcher. And far too often in the recent past had found himself wondering why on earth Fate had decided to saddle with something so burdensome as a soulmate. It was distracting, had very nearly cost him his head during one of his contracts when the mark began to suddenly throb, causing him a moment of inattention that would have proved itself fatal had it not been for his honed instincts and a calculated swing of his sword.

It wasn’t that Geralt _felt_ , per se, rather, he’d learnt quite quickly to purge his soul of most of his wants, desires and emotions over the course of long years of training, and let very little through on his end of the bond. Only the occasional slip-up on his part let foreign feelings in, usually brought on by an injury or over-exertion when he would tend to his wounds in the safe sanctuary of a warm room in an inn, and as soon as Geralt would realize his weakness, become aware of this foreign and detestable _thing_ in his chest, he would push them out and shut himself off. It was safer that way – he did not deserve these things they were feeling and his nothingness would not taint his other half, Geralt would not let his existence soil them in such a way.

His small mercy towards them didn’t mean that he _liked_ his soulmate. He didn’t care for them, or feel these things humans called _empathy_ and _affection:_ Geralt had completed his trials long ago, divested himself of such weaknesses before he’d have been able to miss them. Nowadays, Geralt felt mostly indifferent to them, things like hate, annoyance, anger, delight, euphoria, hope and exasperation towards them meant _feeling,_ and as he had learnt well, Witchers didn’t have feelings.

Oft times, however, he still wondered _why_ he’d even been saddled with one. Geralt was a monster, less then human, who felt little to nothing and could not share those feelings with another, what ugly twist of fate would one have to be misfortunate enough to suffer to be tethered to a grotesque beast like _him?_

Once upon a time, in another lifetime long before the Witcher trials had swallowed him whole, divested him of his humanity and gnawed at his every feeling, feasted on his pain and sucked wants and desires from the marrow of his bones, a young Geralt had been quite smitten by the idea of destiny intertwining his life with another person’s, a stranger he had yet to find. He would dream of it, the grand adventures they would share, fighting monsters back to back and the tales people would spin of star-crossed lovers whose story would be written in the twinkle of the night sky for all to see. And what young boy wouldn’t hold such aspirations, after first hearing of soulmates?

He could still vividly remember, to this day, how his dear mother had sat him down on the old wooden kitchen stool, her frail and delicate hands ever so gentle on his shoulders as he’d bounced with barely restrained excitement at the story she would impart to him. He’d listened, with rapt attention, wonder in his eyes and heart beating lively in his chest, wild and intimidated, as her voice turned grave and laced with a heavy weariness, yet ever so motherly, urged him to set aside his dreams for a while and temper his questioning lips, for it was crucial he understood her next words.

Geralt had turned into a rather quiet and reserved boy from then on.

With carefully chosen words, his mother then told him about the mark, how it was inescapable, that all breathing things on the Continent had one, regardless of their age, their gender and what race they may belong to. Each pair of bound souls had a unique emblem, which would usually bloom in late adolescence or early adulthood. Geralt had anticipated the mark appearing on his skin every day for years to come after that, oft nights dreamt of what it might look like and how it would feel against his skin. He’d made a point, then, to be more observant, take note of the baker’s wrist or the weaver’s daughter’s arm when he could sneak a glance at them, wondered if they felt at all different after the mark’s appearance. Years and years of careful watching and anticipation had built it up to be something monumentally life-changing, spurred on by his childish imagination and the romantic-laced tales traveling troubadours and poets would sing when briefly halting in his humble village for a night.

Yet when the day finally came, and he entered adulthood with a burn on his wrist and throbbing pain shooting up his arm for the next three days, Geralt only remembered being sorely disappointed. There was nothing romantic at all about the small little thing now adorning his skin forever, and while it was far from ugly, it certainly didn’t live up to the countless songs and poems of star-crossed lovers and passionate adventures, a far cry from tales woven by lettered bards and their fair singing. Rather, it felt more like a responsibility, a heavy burden upon his fresh adult shoulders now that he was tethered to another being, out there, his carefree teenage years over before he’d truly been able to live them sealed away with a mark he could not escape.

The only feeling Geralt remembered vividly experiencing that day was one of profound loss, for having his destiny forever intertwined with a virtual stranger’s, someone he neither knew nor had chosen, their only common ground being that exact lack of choice their marks had brought them together in. One of his rare comforts, in the whole sordid affair, was the ever-constant presence of his mother, who eased the searing pain on his wrist with a soft rag of cold water, her delicate hands on his skin a soothing balm, her gentle words urging him not to worry and easing his spirit, and for a short while, he believed her because it was an easier alternative to the pain. He believed her stories, of how, when he was older, he would one day find his one person, how they would fit so perfectly, complete each other and forge their two souls into a shared one. Nevertheless, amidst his awe at such a wonderful future, she’d urged him to be ever cautious too, the power of a bond a double-edged sword. If cast in love and a mutual exchange, a soul bond was truly beautiful, a rare feat to be privy to, and one to cherish for the rest of his days. Were it to be forged under duress or in hate however, the bond could spell out doom for those involved, with one half feeding off the other, draining them of everything they had, twisting the very core of both souls until nothing but ashes remained.

A young Geralt hadn’t very much liked the sound of that, swore blind to his mother that, were he to ever find his soulmate, he would try his upmost to care for them, would never dare to use force against them were it to turn him into such a depraved monster. She’d been proud, had given him a knowing smile and a gentle touch on his shoulder, as if she knew.

And then, a short while later, his mother died.

She had always been a rather lonely soul, his father having been out of the picture before Geralt could even remember even a hint of the shadows on his face, but he could see his mother had always mourned him deeply. His death had been an steadfast companion of hers, an ever present gaping hole in her life, hole a young Geralt had tried and failed to fill. His mother had endured a slow and agonizing death, fading away a little every day as she let grief consume her, and when it had become too much for her to bear, she flickered out, or so the neighbours said, Geralt couldn’t stomach seeing her so, found his sorrow easier to manage alone, whilst retreating from the world, and by the time he’d eventually come back to what remained of their little home, it was to his neighbours grief-stricken voices gently telling him she’d passed.

He lay what little buttercups had sprouted from the ground on the pile of dirt beneath which they had laid her to rest, in the ashes of what had once been their home, and before he sealed off that chapter of his life, he buried most of what he could feel along with her.

Geralt tried to move on, but the loss had been so overwhelming, he allowed it to consume him whole, a black hole sucking any ounce of joy a young Geralt could find for long months afterwards. It was easier, at first, to let his grief take away what remained of his humanity, slowly ceasing to feel was a far more alluring alternative than wallowing in sadness and longing for a soul who would never come back. With nobody left, he’d turned to his last resort, tried listening with his heart for his soulmate through the bond they shared, like his mother used to say. He longed for comfort, a warm embrace, a touch of humanity, the slightest hint of gentleness to rescue him from the path he could feel himself go down, yet through it all, there was nothing. Geralt even tried talking to them –felt quite ridiculous when doing so- asked after their name, inquired about what they liked, cried out for help on days his grief felt too much for him to bear, but his other half never talked back to him, probably didn’t even realize they shared a bond. Instead, when Geralt closed his eyes, it was to the vibrant blue of the sea, the sharp smell of the salty air, a gentle breeze dishevelling his long hair, and nothing else.

It was what little feelings Geralt allowed himself.

Well longing and anger and hatred. While, much later, mentored under Vesemir’s watchful eye, Geralt learnt to reign in his emotions and control and divest himself of everything he felt, his other half was another story entirely. Granted, he no longer felt them as much as when he was a child –intense training taught him that Witchers didn’t have feelings, that Geralt _couldn’t_ care because that’s what he was: a _Witcher,_ and Witchers didn’t deserve to _feel-_ but his other half, the occasional emotion they’d impose on him, Geralt _hated_ it. It became physically painful to feel, and his only respite came in slaying monsters, lashing out his resentment for his inconsiderate other half upon undesired creatures.

Geralt became quite the adept in that department. Monsters and money was soon to be a constant in his life, and along with Roach who made for all the good company he needed, that was enough. He paid little heed to word spreading about him –so what if people thought him a butcher, a demon or just another monster? Let them talk- their harsh words and vile gestures could no longer reach him, Geralt having honed his armour of indifference for so long now, it had become nigh impenetrable. And if he left just one part of it unguarded, one _tiny_ part open where he’d indulge in Roach nuzzling his shoulder or would run his hand along her neck after a particularly long day, well nobody would be none the wiser.

The twisted mark on his wrist remained, however much Geralt tried to stop feeling. And while it had not changed in the slightest since the fateful day it had first adorned his skin, Geralt thought it grew evermore ugly in his eyes, and still tethered his fate to a complete stranger. Had he a heart, Geralt might have pitied the poor soul bound to him in such a way, wouldn’t wish such a fate on anyone, for Witchers made for little companionship: he barely spoke, and if his few words weren’t enough to scare people away, then his general appearance, austere and ugly features and brutish nature oft did the trick. His entire existence cursed to be on the edge of the world, forever an outcast, spectator to life and happiness and joy and emotions he could never allow himself to feel, because a Witcher didn’t deserve it, was no way for another soul to live.

Soulmates were a curse, Geralt decided after that. His mother’s stories, the ones that put a twinkle in his eye and would send his young self off to sleep with dreams of romances written in the stars morphed into an ugly truth that had always been there, that he’d always blinded himself to, and for a while, he loathed her for ever tricking him into believing in such a deceptive rosy picture.

Then he stopped, because it was useless to hold such petty grudges against the dead, and because holding grudges meant Geralt could still _feel,_ and Witchers didn’t deserve to feel. So he didn’t.

Ever the lonely traveller, Geralt had had ample time then to deconstruct his mother’s words, erase what he’d believed in for so long, because her pretty picture was just that, _a pretty picture._ The world was ugly, it’s men full of vices and wickedness, and everywhere Geralt went, he was privy to the worst of what humanity had to offer, a front row seat to the macabre spectacle that was human life in all of its crude deformities; how some enjoyed causing misery to their pairs and revelled in depravity, how others stole from those who had nothing and seemingly had no qualms about it, how others still made their way in life by means of tricks, lies and deceit, but most vile of all were those who bonded by force.

Indeed, while Witchers and humans certainly held their differences, a trait Geralt was ever so often made aware of by those same humans he strove to save, they also seemed to share in the concept of soulmates, and adorned marks on their wrists too. Most were content with their lives, and the lucky few to actually enjoy it, paraded their soul marks and their other halves, utterly radiant. Such outlandish behaviour did not encompass the Human race, but he’d seen a number of them along his travels. Geralt usually steered clear of them, not particularly one to partake in such buoyancy. He no longer understood it.

Others… Other humans, Geralt had sometimes _considerably_ less respect for. Those who knew they’d never find their soulmate and, desperate and weak, would succumb to their vices and force a fellow human into a bond with them, commit acts so unforgivable Geralt didn’t think even his kind partook in them, those people the Witcher held a particularly acute distaste for.

He’d never forget the first time he saw it. It had been a couple like any other at first glance, the pair blending in perfectly among the other peasants of the village he’d halted in for the night, both adorning different marks on their wrists, yet the woman’s eyes looked dead, the spark of life so inherent to humans having long ago left her soul, and all that was left behind was the shell of a body, ever slow to die, while the other half of the bond fed off her utter powerlessness. A younger Geralt might have been touched by the tragic tableau they formed, might have intervened, might have shook the woman and told her a far-fetched story about Fate, and how she was destined to be with someone out there, someone who would treat her right, but this Geralt, the one who had been hardened by life, who had closed himself off to most of his emotions, this one looked on, slightly unsettled and repulsed at the depravity fellow humans could inflict upon each other. And he moved on.

The image of the two had never truly left him however, accompanied him into the long nights when he had little else to ponder on while looking at the stars, Roach resting quietly beside him, and it never failed to send shivers down his spine at the thought of someone even doing such a thing. Granted, he was not one to judge, the Witcher was merely an executioner to the hideous beasts that roamed the Continent, but it troubled him, sometimes. Geralt’s only escape from such disconcerting thoughts, in those quiet hours, before the sun rose and life returned to the wilderness around him, was the scent of the sea, rising, unbidden, all around him. He never recalled trying to dream of it when he closed his eyes, it just… _Appeared,_ and Geralt wasn’t one to question it, merely accepted it, it was nicer than many of the roughened patches of nature he’d oft set camp in, sometimes it may even have beat the old and run-down inns that would graciously agree to host him.

Geralt dreamed of the coast more often than not, these nights. Closed his eyes to a vast expanse of silver sand, warm and soft beneath his feet, the lap of the waves a quiet roar in his ears, and the horizon an ever vibrant teal-blue. Sometimes, there were gulls in the sky, crying out among the clouds, Geralt’s only distant companions in this world of imagination. Truth be told, he didn’t mind the noise, the silence of his lonely life could be quite oppressive, he’d come to find out. He had no idea what it meant, doubted he should even be putting any stock in these illusions his soul conjured up in his sleeping hours, but it was safe, and pleasant, and Geralt didn’t really have any reason to want to escape it.

And then, just when Geralt had begun to settle in to an existence of solitude, gotten used to the ever weighing silence and discovered that maybe, just maybe, he could allow himself to enjoy it, in waltzed Jaskier, flamboyant and ever so _loud,_ and for the first time in many years, the Witcher was exposed (much against his will, mind you), to life, and much of the things he’d long since denied himself.

Not that Jaskier changed that, at all. _Witchers didn’t have feelings,_ and that was that, Geralt wasn’t one to argue with the inherent traits of who he was. His inability to feel, however, did not stop him being an onlooker to Jaskier _feeling._

Because he did.

And Jaskier felt, _a lot._

_And it was terrifying._

He didn’t mean for the bard to become a traveling companion, and if he were to be completely honest, Jaskier sort of imposed his company on Geralt and the Witcher merely went along with it after realizing the man wouldn’t leave him alone. But, all things considered, it wasn’t so bad, most of the time at least. Jaskier talked enough for the both of them, and Geralt allowed himself some short, clipped answers from time to time (to get Jaskier to shut up, mostly, but maybe it was also nice to have someone to talk to, just a little. It was a nice change from Roach, and the one-way monologues), but Geralt was content to just listen, mostly –to his romantic poems, his philosophizing about life, to his ballads of fair maidens and noble Sirs, to his ramblings on the colour of the trees and how Roach was gentle with him- he was quite the chatterbox after all.

Jaskier loved the world, wrote his songs in that fancy language of his, his own way to express his affection for it. He sang, wrote and played his music, and gave himself fully to every person he fell into bed with, had his heart broken and picked himself up more times than he could count and how he could even allow such openness Geralt could never understand. It was unfair, almost, how Jaskier had stayed soft in a world that had made Geralt hard, how Jaskier felt so much when Geralt had been purged of his emotions almost entirely, how he could afford to be raw and vulnerable when Geralt had learnt it to be a death sentence. He had no sense of self-preservation, didn’t know how to keep his mouth shut, couldn’t hold a knife correctly even if his life depended on it, barely looked out for himself with Geralt oft having to rescue him from mishaps and misunderstandings and Jaskier, in turn, sang his praises and turned an entire continent’s jeers regarding the infamous Butcher of Blaviken into praises and ovations to the White Wolf. People welcomed him, children dared come forward and pet Roach, no longer looking at him with that _thing_ in their eye, tavern owners and innkeepers were less reluctant to open their doors and when Jaskier spun tales and ballads of the White Wolf, enrapturing the crowds and giving them the performance they sorely wanted, and Geralt looked on, watched as the bard would give and give and _give_ himself so completely to the crowd, flip people’s perception of his companion merely because Jaskier considered him a _friend,_ and couldn’t help but admire him a little, for that.

Geralt knew it would backfire, eventually: the world was not a kind place, not to people like Jaskier, and one day he was bound to get himself into something Geralt wouldn’t be able to rescue him from.

Geralt told himself time and time again he didn’t _care_ for Jaskier, that he couldn’t because of his very nature… He merely looked out for him because he didn’t want to be _responsible_ for anything terrible happening to him as long as they travelled together.

Jaskier wasn’t meant to stay, Geralt told him time and time again to kindly _fuck off,_ but still, he chose to stick by him, and along with it came a little bit of warmth in his chest and a twinkle on the sea when he closed his eyes –because by the time he realized he’d begun to feel again, it was far too late for Geralt to really stop it. It had been mild annoyance, at first, because this bard was an idiot who just wouldn’t leave him be, he was irritating and noisy and open and _fragile_ and everything that Geralt just couldn’t allow himself to be anymore, yet along with Jaskier came Filavandrel and Torque and Calanthe and Yennefer and a string of people he’d never met before, people he’d never felt for, people who brought out faded emotions in him, revived the embers of a past fire Geralt had long ago smothered out.

Annoyance, respect, fondness, it was all completely new to Geralt, and even when tampering down the emotions, when trying to control them and reign them in lest he become vulnerable to them, it was no less terrifying, realizing he’d begun to feel again, quite despite himself. Yet when he woke up to Yennefer’s violet eyes, her bright smile and a feeling of contentedness –that he was _enough_ for someone-, recalled perhaps _enjoying_ (were Witchers even allowed that, to _enjoy?)_ what had transpired in the intimacy of her bed the night before, it wasn’t an entirely unpleasant feeling. They would meet up, for a while, travel together for as long as their paths crossed and it was nice while it lasted, and at night, all was silent safe for the warmth in his wrist, the little mark ever present. The little mark that was, perhaps, not quite so disliked anymore. Oh Geralt still loathed that Fate had tied him to someone, hated his lack of say in the whole affair, but if their company was as bearable as Yennefer’s or Jaskier’s, he ventured that he could maybe _tolerate_ it if nothing else.

The world didn’t look quite so bleak anymore, the lush trees and the sparkling water he and Jaskier would stop by and let Roach drink from made for a pretty sight, the shining stars they’d look up to at night dotting the sky a safe blanket to sleep beneath, and slowly, Geralt began to believe the world maybe wasn’t such a bad place after all, he just had to learn to love it. The green grass beneath Roach’s hooves was no longer just grass, but a soft matting harbouring _life_ and the last drops of a shower of rain and a cover for little furry rodents whose homes lay beneath. Flowers had more vibrant colours, Geralt sometimes appreciating out of the corner of his eye the way the sun would shine on a cluster of marigolds, a wide range of warm salamander orange to deep honeyed tones, and, occasionally, a bee buzzed around stigma, other times, a lone ladybird might rest upon its petals for a while, and Geralt almost admitted it was pretty one day.

He didn’t mind that one time Jaskier picked up a stray dandelion, didn’t say anything when he gently put it behind Roach’s ear, hands delicate around his mare, gesture soft when he let his fingers slide down her neck. She was a good travelling companion, she deserved to be pampered after all, is what the bard would say. Geralt thought so too, but never said so aloud though, knew that such an open display of care would be preyed upon, that Jaksier would never let him live it down. And perhaps doing so would mean having to admit everything he’d thought he knew about himself, his entire race, perhaps wasn’t so anymore.

Usually, when Geralt found himself contemplating such thoughts, he was quick enough to shut them down, listen out for any wild beast, he _couldn’t_ be vulnerable. Vulnerable got you killed, vulnerable was the way Jaskier sought salvation upon his features, terror clouding his eyes as he choked on his own blood after the djinn assaulted his throat, vulnerable was Renfri gazing up at him, eyes ever so expressive still as life fled her, vulnerable was Yennefer, on the side of that mountain, pain in her every feature and fragile anger in her voice as she doubted what she felt, vulnerable was the way Jaskier looked at him _again_ –hurt in his heart, bare for the world to see- and words ripped straight from his throat as he took his lashing, Geralt’s outburst sending him away, alone.

Geralt had been scared of himself that day, saw the devastation that accepting his emotions back had left behind, and vowed, then, to truly never fall prey to such weakness ever again.

So he locked them away once more, and went back to his solitary life, just him, Roach and his monsters. Days turned into months, and months into a year, and Geralt liked to trick himself into believing he was, maybe not _happy_ since he couldn’t be, but _content_ with getting back to his normal life.

Yet, when another day came around, the sun rising in the east, it’s warmth rousing him from sleep, instead of setting about waking Roach and heading on their way, Geralt found himself taking a brief moment to appreciate the way the morning dew dropped from the weeds at his feet, how the wet grass felt beneath his skin, and how the cool breeze rifting through the trees –their branches whispering in a language he could not even begin to understand- waking whatever small life may be hiding among them. How the first rays of sunlight caught the bark, shades of walnut and carob browns intertwining with each other as the shadows danced across the bark. It wasn’t much, but such little things had become the few highlights of his lonely days, Geralt now devoid of companionship. Had he the words, the Witcher even thought he may try and write it down, so he could remember how charming a picture it was on days his loneliness seemed too much to bare, but he had not the eloquence to truly encapsulate the uniqueness of such beauty, he was no poet –he’d sent his away in a fit of anger- and so Geralt moved on.

He continued his travels alone, refused any notion of companionship outside of Roach, and if an ache of loneliness began to choke him with more insistence, Geralt merely told himself he deserved it. He’d pushed away what company he’d had, buried the embers of what had been born in that time under a steady flow of contracts, fighting, scars and healing. It was better that way, more predictable, and with money flowing in regularly, Geralt could indulge his mare to a warm stall and an extra helping of hay and oats, could indulge in her thanking him as she’d nuzzle his chest and look for a scratch behind her ear, and that was enough.

The memories of his travel companions –Yennefer and Jaskier- stubbornly remained, and Geralt no longer sought to rid himself of them. Who would know he thought such things? Certainly not Roach, and he doubted his features gave anything away to the many people he encountered in need of his help. His soulmate? He barely felt them anymore, doubted that with what little he experienced, they even felt _him._

He still closed his eyes to the coast, calm and quiet most nights, until it wasn’t.

Exhausted from his contract that day, the ghoul he’d been called out to get rid of having taken far taking more from him than he’d initially thought, the nasty cut on his shoulder it left him with itching uncomfortably when he set out with Roach again, after bidding the unfortunate family goodbye.

The Temerian border wasn’t far, and were he to push Roach further, he might have made it to an inn in Vizima, but both too exhausted for the journey, Geralt thought prudence to be the better option, chose to set camp on the edge of a beaten down track, away from passage and unwanted inquiries. The cut was ugly, would probably need tending to tomorrow when he got his hands on supplies, and would need a couple of days to scab over –any hope Geralt had of saving his coppers gone.

_Fuck._

Not much he could do about it now, however. Not much beyond hope that, with a little luck, there would be easy coin to be made in Vizima.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I messed around a little with Geralt's backstory, I know, but it just felt a little more organic for this story.


	2. II

Geralt hadn’t slept.

He’d closed his eyes to a veritable tempest, the raging waves threatening to swallow him whole and their song stinging his ears as they roared, a wild storm above his head drenching him down to the marrow of his bones, droplets of rain sharp like daggers, breaking and bruising his skin, salt water all but aggravating his wounds as Geralt looked around urgently, in desperate need to take shelter.

There was nothing to be found, however, nothing beyond the vast expanse of silver sand he felt his each and every step sink in to, the howling wind ripping straight through him, sending grains into his eyes, and the waves’ harsh touch, trying to drag him out in the strong embrace of their current, would likely gladly have drowned him if they could. Geralt, already exhausted, had had to fight tooth and nail to stay where he was, endure the wild clap of thunder and flashes of lightning darting across the sky, ripping through the ink-black clouds and making the waves shake in fear, and when the sun rose, a hint of gold in a dusky pink sky, the storm finally abated somewhat, the sea trembling in its wake, Geralt could do little else beyond fall to his knees, drained, aching body now in dire ned of rest and the mark on his wrist throbbing almost painfully.

He could not move, just lay there and breathed, greedy for the air the storm had so viciously deprived him of, let the sun’s feeble rays warm his frozen skin, the waves –gentle now, no longer at the mercy of the volatile weather- lap at his feet tentatively, almost as if in offering an apology, in the hopes that, perhaps, their compassion could mend the hurt that now hid beneath his skin.

Waking up had not been a pleasant affair, to say the least. Every one of his movements hurt, and while Geralt was used to setting his pain aside, to ignoring it merely because _Witchers weren’t supposed to feel pain,_ this was becoming increasingly difficult to turn a blind eye to. Granted, he was by no means weak -he had a will of steel and muscle aplenty to disprove any who may think otherwise, would gladly put them to the test if provoked- this sudden hurt assailing his body bespoke of a different nature. There was an intimate weariness to it, lacing deep in his bones, an ache longing for sleep in his veins and a hint of worry tainting his steel-heart, the stranger at the other end of their bond clearly remorseful that Geralt was getting caught up in all of this without being able to do anything much about it. There was no pride to be had in inspecting the damage, no grand story to tell about the ugly bruises adorning torso the next morning, no song to write about valiant prowess or epic battles. These were not war trophies, Geralt had not fought any monster to lay claim to these, he hadn’t wanted them at all, an undesired gift from his other half that he’d strongly consider giving them back were he to ever find their sorry hide one day.

Well, perhaps he wouldn’t return the favour tenfold, such actions would do little to resolve the issue, but Geralt would definitely be having a word with them, ask them what exactly they were playing at and demand they perhaps be more considerate towards the other soul tethered to them in the future at least. Then, he supposed he would promptly tell them to fuck off, and that they better never cause any trouble for him ever again.

The soul bond was not supposed to hurt, or at least his mother, Vesemir and the stories he’d grown up on had said as such. People had always talked about it returning love and happiness tenfold, the bond making one experience _joy,_ and _pride,_ and _gentleness,_ and other enticing feelings and emotions. There had never been any talk of it making one feel as if they were being torn apart, their body violated by winds they could not see and then doused in cold rain until the very marrow of their bones went numb. For so long, Geralt had believed those tales, had only given them up when Kaer Mohren had stripped him of the last of his feelings, hopes and dreams, a price he’d accepted to become a Witcher. His emotions hadn’t been something he’d sorely missed anyway, and he would gladly now give Vesemir these new sprouts of emotions this horrendous mark was forcing back onto him before they took root, grew into something untameable and decided to control him.

Geralt tried not giving it too much thought, tried treating it like he would any other wound, used what was left of his water supply to drench the mark, hoped it would ease the burn somewhat, and then proceeded to wrap it in what little gauze he still had before cutting at the tattered remains of a spare old shirt he had at the bottom of his pack, pulling on the strips harshly once it was around his wrist so as to stop any feeling there.

_Gods he did not want to feel._

To his relief, it had worked, his injury going numb for a while, and Geralt could afford to forget about it again, instead be content that he and Roach were making good time, with little hindrance to be found on their way. He even offered her the luxury of stopping by Pontar and let her rest for a while, no urgency lacing his movements as dismounted and set about undoing the girth around her belly just slightly to make her more comfortable, then let her roam free among the grass as he elected to lay his sword down, not too far just in case the need arose, and settle himself next to it.

It was just him and Roach, like it was meant to be, yet as he kept an eye on her, just in case, as the mare lowered herself to the river bank, careful to avoid the cluster of flowers at her hooves where life buzzed aplenty, he felt an emptiness inside, something infinitely gentle he lacked to truly appreciate the tableau she painted. Perhaps he was short of words –Geralt wasn’t one for them, tended to use them as was strictly necessary, and usually tried to keep them as concrete as possible- and not for the first time did he perhaps regret not being able to do justice to _this._

 _This,_ Roach, the lush green grass, the gentle burbling of the stream, the way the light caught the water and made it sparkle, gave an ethereal quality to the almost bucolic setting, Geralt was missing something to authentically describe it, to perhaps put into words what exactly he was seeing and truly appreciate the beauty of it. He hadn’t always been one to indulge in musings such as this, thought it pretty frivolous when he’d first been introduced to it, and then gotten strangely used to it during his travels. Usually, there would have been the gentle strumming of a lute to accompany them, background noise he’d come to perhaps not _like,_ but get accustomed to at the very least, followed by the grating scribble of a pen on old faded daffodil-coloured pages and the poetic ramblings of a friend he’d long ago ceased to hear even a murmur from.

Maybe, if Geralt had a heart, if he had emotions, maybe he’d say almost missed it.

But Geralt didn’t _feel._ Didn’t _want._ Didn’t _miss._

And so, just as sudden as the musings had risen, unbidden, to his mind, did he banish them far away, sent them rolling on the current, to be lost at sea forever. He was a butcher, a wild beast, a freak of nature, and a monster deserved not to appreciate such delicate humanistic thoughts. In his crude hands and with his brutish strength, he’d naught but twist them, pull the enlightened flower of wonder from the ground and shatter it to dust, ugly, deformed and dead, never to be salvaged, the emotion then lost forever. He tried pinning his lack of self-awareness on his fatigue, for attempting poetry could not be brought on by anything but his lack of sleep, and told himself that at least tonight, he’d rest well. Tomorrow, Geralt would not let such weakness take hold of him so again.

This evening, he’d find a warm bed, soft covers to let sleep claim him in and a hearty meal of the best quality to send him off before that. Word was that the taverns and inns in the capitals always boasted of far superior cooking and service than the run-down establishments Geralt sought refuge in in down-trodden corners of forgotten towns on the edge of the world, he supposed that, he’d be putting their word to the test later.

However well-prepared he may have been, riding into Vizima still came as quite a shock to Geralt. The city was alive, abuzz with life at every corner, merchants of fine silks calling out their prices in one side of the streets, vendors trying to outmatch them on the other and smaller farmers attempting to make a sale of fresh goods caught in the middle of the fray. Men, women and children filled the avenues, each clamouring over the other in a vain attempt to be heard –but probably had words of little substance to share, Geralt had had the occasion to observe these types of human specimen before- the younger usually in groups, at the side, playing or chasing the stray cats down the street. If one happened to jump in front of a cart, it was only the sharp eye of a city guard that kept disaster at bay, and the stern talking-to afterwards to insure that it would not happen again, before the child would be sent scampering off, head hung low, face red in shame, their tail between their legs.

All in all, it wasn’t so different from any other big city Geralt had been to in the past. Yet there was a certain fervour to the citizens, as they talked in hushed whispers as he passed them by, Roach following him obediently at his side, ears alert to the incessant noise following them about like a shadow. He didn’t have to lean in to garner what it was that agitated them so –it wasn’t often that a Witcher halted in town after all, especially not one as renowned as _Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf._ Word of his name and exploits had spread, and while, admittedly, Geralt didn’t mind the lack of jeers and stonings he’d grown accustomed to receive as a gesture of welcome, he wasn’t quite used to _this_ either. The lack of hostility, of harsh words, of grimaces of fear and outward violence towards him, it was still difficult to accept, even more so when it was what he’d always known until the last year.

Jaskier’s songs seemed to have reached here too, when, much to his surprise, an old woman tossed a coin at his feet, thanking him for everything he did for them, recognition and sincerity in her eyes.

Geralt could sense her words touch something in him, entirely foreign, but warm nonetheless, almost assuredly was another one of these _feelings_ that he wasn’t supposed to have. Geralt was meant to be in control, have some semblance of self-awareness of his own person, and immediately clamped down when he felt the corner of his lip upturn at her. He couldn’t do this, not here, not in front of such a crowd, and instead bowed down to retrieve her gift, thanked her in that gruff voice of his and asked for the directions to the closest inn. The sooner he could take refuge from the crowded avenue, the better.

The children beat her to it, the young boy pointing eagerly towards a sign hanging off the corner of a building at the end of the street, the mouth-watering smell of soup spilling out from the pores of the establishment. It beckoned his tired limbs, set alight his famished belly, and giving in to temptation, Geralt let his yearning for a good meal guide him over, his grip around Roach’s reigns tightening as he lead her forward, one last stretch before they could rest a little.

There was not a stone thrown towards his person on the way down, despite Geralt anticipating the grating sting upon his skin. It had become somewhat routine for him, the humans luring him into a false sense of safety, thanking him for his work and sending him on his way with a parting gift of cuts and bruises. He’d grown to know their ways too well, knew to expect it still, in the remote corners of the world where _Toss a Coin_ had not yet reached the unfortunate people there. But here, in Vizima, no such fate befell him, and Geralt eventually made it to the inn, limbs laced with exhaustion and hunger gnawing at his stomach, but in one piece.

“Your reputation precedes you, White Wolf, the tales of your adventures make for quite the crowd in here, and for that, I cannot but thank you.”

He’d barely made it to the counter, and already, the patron recognized him, so much for some peace and quiet then. But Geralt thought, after a moment, that he ought not to have been surprised, Jaskier had promised him, once, that he’d work his magic, Geralt now had the fruits of his labour laid bare before his eyes.

It would seem like he owed him a _thank you,_ in addition to an apology, were their paths ever to cross again.

And maybe, before Geralt could catch himself in the act, he briefly hoped they would.

“You got any spare rooms?” He asked instead, his body crying out for rest, the hard wooden chairs looking more than inviting after several hours in the saddle.

“Aye, got a couple.” He said, cheerily, “And some hot soup, on the house. Figured with what your kind does for us, perhaps a bowl of soup isn’t too much for me to spare.”

Geralt merely grunted, handed him his coin and settled down in the farthest corner he could find, away from the crowd and the looks he knew he would be bound to attract. He sighed as he sat down, the weariness from his travels hitting him tenfold now that he’d at last stopped, and he found himself looking forward to a couple hours of rest. Or he would, if the damned singing at the other end would quieten down somewhat.

Quick to understand that they would get naught a word out of the Witcher, the entertaining prospect of talking to him rapidly fizzled out, the rest of the patrons turning instead to the bard in the corner. Aside from the long fancy emerald feather on his cap, Geralt couldn’t see him from where he was sitting, a sea of people between them, but his voice was high-pitched, grating, and from the sound of it, it would seem the man was rather full of himself, as he strutted around, raunchy tales of a promiscuous siren pouring out of his loose lips, to the delighted rhythmic applause of his enraptured audience.

It did little to ease the headache Geralt could feel getting steadily worse, a decidedly unpleasant pulse buzzing behind his eyes, and while he knew better than to brazenly wish for something without care for the consequences – an amphora, a djinn and a very different bard choking on his own blood had taught him better in a lesson that never failed to send a shiver down his spine – the Witcher had to admit that, right then, he would not have hesitated to summon one of those malevolent genies, wish for the creature to smite the pretentious man where he stood and reduce him to nothing but a pile of ash. But, with no amphora to speak of, and not endowed with magic like Yennefer was, chaos dancing at the tips of her fingers, Geralt had to content himself with fiercely glaring that the musician from his corner, which he would readily admit, was far less intimidating than he’d have probably liked. By the gods, the bard really was a pie with no filling.

Instead of paying any heed to his grandiloquent singing, he went back to worrying his wrist, the searing pain from last night having abated somewhat, but a dull and rather uncomfortable throb having since taken its place. As he pulled down his sleeve to assess the damage, the skin was bright red around the mark, raised like an infected wound and sensitive to the touch, as if he’d been burned, yet much to his frustration, there was no injury there to heal. Sighing, Geralt left it at that, didn’t prod, decided he would ask the innkeeper for supplies later, when taking the time to tend to it in the confines of his room, but was relieved nonetheless to see that the wound was not too extensive. That he’d be able to take up a contract if need be, at least.

He folded his throbbing arm, let it rest upon the table, his other hand on his forehead, rubbing his temples in the vain hopes of perchance chasing away the migraine the stupid peacock’s screeching was brining on. Geralt would have gladly told him to shut up (and perhaps _fuck off,_ too, preferably somewhere far away from here), but given how enthralled the crowd seemed to be with him –probably didn’t have this kind of entertainment every day- he supposed he could let them have their fun for tonight, but would make a point to come down later were the bard to continue singing into the ungodly hours of the morning. Geralt wasn’t giving up even a minute of sleep for that fucker.

The innkeeper must have noticed him staring, as, once the steaming plate of food carefully placed in front of him, he filled him in, “That would be Valdo Marx, the troubadour from Cidaris. I hear he’s to play at Lord Kimbolt’s feast for the hunt tomorrow evening, that what you’re here for Witcher, I suppose?”

“A hunt?” Geralt asked, eyes leaving the flamboyant bird and back to his interlocutor, he’d not caught wind of anything of the kind.

“You haven’t heard? It’s been all the talk in the area for the last month, my good friend!” He laughed, heartily, one hand on Geralt’s shoulder in a gesture that seemed far too familiar for the Witcher’s liking, “Word is, there has been sightings of a unicorn in Brokilon Forest, Lord Kimbolt has sent out letters to all of the noble of the surrounding kingdoms for a grand hunt. And he’s offering a handsome reward for its capture too, or so the rumours say. I’d go myself had I the tools for it!” He chuckled, spared a glance back to his bar, made sure nobody was trying to make off with a bottle or two while his back was turned, then, leaning in, he whispered, “He’s hosting all of the dignitaries, from Kaedwen in the North all the way down to Nilfgaard in the South. Some are even saying that this is an attempt at a truce across the continent, not that I would know how partaking in such a thing would do that, but nobility has its ways, I suppose.”

 _Remarkable, if true._ Geralt may not have had much faith in humans or their inherent goodness, but if this was genuine, then it would be a first real attempt at bringing an end to the open conflict, ultimately saving lives that needn’t be sacrificed for the wars started by nobles and aristocrats who would never fight in them. And, whatever the grand lords were playing at, it certainly seemed to have the small folk gossiping, a certain lightness was to be found in the air around them. The innkeeper, for his part, was positively delighted at the opportunity to converse a little, seemed to truly believe whatever cockamamie story the upper class had thrown their way. It certainly didn’t seem to be hurting his business, by the looks of things.

Geralt, perhaps more cautious than the old man, held a healthy degree of scepticism towards this whole affair, generally knew well when to spot bullshit when he saw it. But he was tired, however, and wasn’t about to argue with his host, potentially sour his mood and promptly find himself kicked out of the establishment and a warm bed for the night, and so went back to digging into his (surprisingly nice) meal, one ear attentive to the fellow’s ramblings. It was preferable to the noise Valdo Marx was making at the other end of the inn by a long shot.

“There’s word of a reward too,” He was saying, gesturing animatedly with his hands, “Lord Kimbolt is ready to pay out of his own pocket to whoever brings him the beast! Can you imagine? With his money, oh the things I could do with that! I’d be getting rid of that terrible stove in the kitchens for starters, maybe hire a nice waitress too, might reel in a few customers.”

He perked up slightly, at that last part. Geralt had splurged the last of his coin for a room, a meal and to ensure that Roach be offered the very best of care, he had little else left in his purse, knew he would undoubtedly be needing more soon. And with the scarcity of monsters to hunt around these parts, whatever the baron was offering seemed too good a proposal to refuse. Unicorns, while it certainly was no easy feat to catch one, were not known to be particularly dangerous either, they did not seek to inflict harm upon others, like much of the other ilk he hunted. There were much worse creatures to trail, Geralt knew well.

“How much?” He asked nonetheless, out of curiosity, interested to know if this whole affair would be worth his time. Geralt didn’t fancy a long travel with the big party such an event would undoubtedly entail, preferred to keep his company rather limited were he to have a say in the matter, too many people usually lead to nothing but unwanted conversations and, if he was lucky, only one of them would find trouble along the way.

Too many people meant one might again foolishly worm its way into his heart, and Geralt didn’t think he could do that, not again. A year of solitude had not been enough to fill the loneliness in his soul, he was not about to tempt fate this soon.

“Four hundred crowns to whoever catches the unicorn, there might also be a much smaller reward for anyone accompanying him to Brokilon, but I would not be certain of that last part, just rumours you know.” The innkeeper said.

 _Alluring._ With a price like that, Geralt very nearly ceded to temptation immediately, almost abandoned his plate and gathered his belongings to head straight to the castle right then and there. He’d be all right for months at the very least were he to make the catch, he’d never go hungry, would be able to afford to sleep in nice places and maybe even change his saddle were he to happen upon a tanner, the leather was getting rather worn at the knee roll and needed some tender care. Two hundred crowns would also ensure a number of medical supplies, in case his soul mark decided to act up again, and knowing his shitty luck, Geralt held little doubt that it would.

“When’s he leaving?” He ventured around another bite, had little care for the look the innkeeper shot his way at his lack of manners. The food was good, warm, heavy, and already, Geralt could feel his hunger subside somewhat, with any luck, it would hold out until the next morning at least.

“If everyone is in a fit state after tomorrow evening’s feast, then probably at the crack of dawn the next day, everybody knows how draconian Lord Kimbolt is, that he likes not to be delayed. But I wouldn’t bet my money on it, Geralt of Rivia, with the ale that’ll be flowing aplenty, I’d garner it’ll take the poor lords at least three days of sleep to recover from the festivities, you probably know how those pompous celebrations work.”

Geralt did, had been invited to many a lord’s court for his services, usually tried to talk his way out of the superfluous festivities, only staying either out of obligation or if his lordship was decidedly displeased with him attempting to depart early and forced him in no uncertain terms to stay by his side.

“A Witcher would make a fine addition to such a party, if I may say so.”

He hummed, very much ignoring the little seed of warmth he could feel budding in his chest at the innkeeper’s compliment and gentle smile, let the man heartily tap his shoulder before beckoning to the call of his other customers, and Geralt found himself, once again, alone with only his thoughts for company. He shouldn’t let the man’s words affect him so, yet, as he watched him stroll around, tending to his patrons, swaying to Marx’s decidedly out-of-tune (and was Geralt imagining things or was that song stolen?), singing and throwing him a backwards glance every so often, there was not a trace of fear to be found upon his features, neither from him nor the rest of the men gathered here tonight.

He was just… There, _accepted_ if not warmly welcomed, and Geralt wasn’t sure what he ought to think of it. Once upon a time, in a past long gone, he might have held a greater appreciation for the humans’ willingness to have him sit here, dining among them like he were any other ordinary person when all Geralt had known was rejection, fear and hatred on their part. He’d know not how to express such emotions, perhaps, but when he saw fleeting strangers in the streets convey such things to their pairs, how insignificantly _mundane_ it was for them yet something so unattainable for him, perhaps Geralt had surprised himself musing on what it might be like, to be so readily accepted.

And yet now that he had it, he knew not what to make of it.

He knew he shouldn’t care, that he ought not to be giving such thoughts to what humans said about him and how they treated him when he deigned to share in their company, but as he watched them dance and sing to Valdo Marx’s off-key tune, men and women of all social classes chanting and laughing like their status’ mattered not for a night, how it seemed so easy to just let their features relax and fully feel happiness and acknowledgment from their pairs, maybe there was something there, in that tableau, that his soul longed for after all.

“I’m sure there will be plenty of noble sirs there more than capable of handling a unicorn, I don’t think they’ll need my companionship.” Geralt said, when the innkeeper came back to him hurriedly once his client at last deigned to let him go.

“Surely you don’t desire to be alone for this, do you? Your life cannot be empty aside from the monsters and money, I refuse to believe it. What of the songs then, they all say of how amicable you are!”

From the table beside, a chorus of agreements arose, Geralt now recognized and wasn’t this _just great,_ exactly what he _hadn’t_ wanted. He was tired, on edge at their unabashed displays of emotions, and unwilling to provide extra entertainment –they had a piss-poor bard for that, might as well use the man for everything he was worth- and instead shot them a glare daunting enough to make even the haughtiest of kings recoil in fear. They, a rag-tag bunch of lower class humans, shook in their knees, cowered away from him, the one woman who seemed to have more spirits about her, who Geralt could see ready to spout idiocies from her mouth, losing her courage to do so.

“Monsters and money is all the life of a Witcher need be.” His answer was clipped, his voice hoarse from disuse, but his words spoke the truth. Geralt had dared indulge in companionship, had dared develop this pesky thing called _emotion,_ had had the audacity to go against the very fabric of what he was, and he’d paid for it, dearly. Yennefer and Jaskier were long gone, the sorceress, from where she had taken up permanent residence in Rinde, only deigning to write him a letter once in a blue moon, the bard lost forever. Geralt knew he was lucky with Ciri, the child-surprise whose kindness he did not deserve, who kept holding out for him despite Geralt knowing he was ultimately bound to fuck up when it came to her too, some day. No, Geralt as unworthy of companionship after destroying it without a second thought.

Geralt wasn’t _nice,_ he wasn’t _kind,_ such words did not exist to describe who he was, they had no place in his world. Kindness and gentleness got you killed, it was why the Trials divested aspiring Witchers of everything they felt, it was the only way to ensure their survival. Such emotions opened one up to be vulnerable, opened one up to be hurt in ways they’d never truly heal from.

Geralt liked to think he had recovered from that fateful day, on the side of the mountain, and sometimes he thought so so strongly he even believed his own lie. But when the night stretched out, loneliness and silence his only companions, his mark aching and exhaustion lacing his bones, he was too weary to fight the remorse and the pain that reminiscing on his actions that day wrought upon him.

An open wound in his heart, left bleeding for a year with no tending to from the Witcher, had weakened his resolve somewhat. Where Geralt once had a will of steel and a hardened heart, the untended hurt born from that failed dragon hunt had festered, and out of his weakened defences now seeped a couple of feelings. They were light, things Geralt could allow himself to feel very occasionally –at least nothing that would hinder his job as a monster hunter- but as much as he had tried to crudely sew up the wound before it damaged him severely, it had weakly scarred over, the barrier now porous. An open breach in his defences.

The men around him, who so easily displayed and talked of their emotions, did not understand –they never would. They could brazenly indulge in their joy as they toasted – _To the Witcher! May he be the one to catch the unicorn!-_ they could smile, they could laugh and be merry, the crinkle of happiness around their eyes was not something for them to control and supress, it was as much a part of them as it was never to be attainable to Geralt. Still, he raised his tankard of ale along with them, to humour them mainly, hoped his future traveling companions would not be so open with their passions or Geralt might just start longing for them.

Later that night, when he closed his eyes and let sleep come and claim him, the sea was calm once again. The coast was quiet, save perhaps for the gentle wind ruffling his hair, carrying along with it the dying sound of a gull, crying out in the distance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your comments and kudos, Jaskier will pop up soon :)


	3. III

Geralt held little love in his heart for these kinds of ostentatious events.

He’d barely taken a step inside the mess hall, and already was he reminded of why he made it a point to never attend gatherings of this sort, or as few of them as possible, at any rate. The air was stifling, the foul stench of expensive fineries saccharine sweet on his tongue and everywhere around him ran the cloying whispers of superficial gossip, none he could make out with distinct clarity, a flurry of words melding into one another, twirling around and mingling into a deformed and unpleasantly persisting buzz. Geralt thought he’d rather the abstract sound of the storm from last night, at least it had been honest, did not pretend to be something it was not, did not hide its cruel intentions behind pompous and ornate language the Witcher could never hope to master.

Countless years of travel between kingdoms and a steady flow of contracts and rewards from aristocrats and counts alike, and still, Geralt had yet to figure out nobility’s infatuation for such superfluous gatherings. He had attended a couple of feasts, more out of obligation than out of a true desire on his part, and all looked the same to him now: drawn out into the middle of the night or the ungodly hours of the morning, a waste of good food Geralt could probably have made last for three months at least, and the games the nobles played, these masks they wore to give the illusion that they enjoyed each other’s company when, truly, it was anything but, was something Geralt never really understood. The only true entertainment to be had was when a servant was unfortunate enough to trip on their fine silks, be sent flying to the ground, much to the amusement of the rest of the guests, their humiliation seemingly a necessary sacrifice for their entertainment. Still, Geralt had yet to attend a banquet with a surprise quite as magnanimous as the one that crashed Princess Pavetta’s betrothal, now _that_ had been a night to remember.

This celebration? This was becoming more uncomfortable by the second, and Geralt could not deny that he was _bored as fuck_ already.

Were one to ask him, he did not think there even was cause for celebration yet: the hunt had not yet begun, the unicorn still running around in the forest of Brokilon, freely roaming among the trees and wood spirits, blissfully unaware of those who would seek her harm. If anything, this whole farce of an evening seemed to be far too much about self-flattery and far too little about the hunt itself. Then again, Geralt supposed he ought not to have been surprised: humans were predictable, flawed, had the unfortunate tendency to think too highly of themselves and let vanity oft get the better of them, a trait helped ever more so when alcohol was to be had with little limitation.

Still, the humans seemed to be in high spirits, as Geralt could see them feasting at the grand tables, coloured garbs from every neighbouring kingdom setting aside their differences for tonight, partaking in merriment, food, drink and song. As he watched two very intoxicated lads make a pathetic attempt at a dance, a third drunkard accompanying them with a set of pipes from where he was slouched on his chair, the rest of the gathering clapping in rhythm, he supposed he could endure their raucous company, at the very least for a couple of hours more. They were merry, and while he held little doubt that each kingdom’s delegates had their reasons for being here, their selfish ambitions seemed to be somewhat kept at bay for the eve. He would not begrudge them their enjoyment for the fleeting time it would last.

Geralt liked to think that, if he could make it through Pavetta’s engagement in one piece _–fucking with Destiny aside, perhaps-_ then he could grit his teeth and sit through this also. It would only be for a short while longer, and once they’d be out in the wilderness, he doubted there would be much occasion for celebration like this, the poor men might as well be merry while they still could. Geralt could be cruel, but he would not take that away from them, and, really, what was one night in the company of people he’d probably never hear a whisper of ever again in six months’ time?

True to the innkeeper’s word, Lord Kimbolt’s invitation seemed to have reached far and wide, the promise of riches and coin luring quite the gathering in his grand hall. Every table was fit to burst, with attendees ranging from strapping young men with a desire for adventure to hardened warriors, who probably sought some of that pledged coin –Geralt wouldn’t blame them, given that his reasons for being here were not so different from theirs. With his enhanced abilities, he needn’t have taken even a step further to overhear a number of men talking of idle ambition, how they would see fit to spend such a handsome reward, each one boasting of more abundance than his neighbour. Perhaps these nobles were not so different from the common folk, it would seem.

It took little time for him to be noticed, of course, as, before he’d even taken a step further, the servant at the end of the table closest to him recognized him instantly, “Why, look who has decided to join us, lads! It’s none other than Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf himself!”

Like moths to a flame, several aspiring squires and young pages flocked over to him, tankards of ale and the scraps of the roasts on their plates in their hands, and while Geralt may have appreciated the humans’ newfound respect for him, he thought not that it warranted such displays of familiarity. Uneasy with the sudden attention, the hunger for a good story looming in their eyes, their fingers itching to dig themselves into him and pry what information they desired out of his person, he backed away until his back hit one of the stone pillars of the mess hall – _fuck,_ he really was not interested in entertaining them any more than he had the men at the inn. The humans seemed little concerned by his plight, coming ever closer like moths drawn to a flame, eager questions pouring out of their alcohol-loosened lips and talking over each other in a cacophony of sounds.

Geralt sorely regretted coming here. While the food certainly looked inviting, he supposed he’d easily get something just as nice back at the inn, where he could at least eat in relative peace. If he could just get his business done with the baron and head out, he would be satisfied.

“I’ve heard rumours that Lord Kimbolt over there is promising good coin for a unicorn. Would his Lordship accord me a few minutes to discuss it?”

Their disappointment showed, Geralt cared not. He was not some fantastical attraction to be inspected, liked not the way their fascinated gazes made him feel – _dehumanized,_ pried apart, clinically observed like one would look at a rare specimen of a creature- and would rather shed himself of their company as quickly as possible. They could get their entertainment somewhere else tonight, by the looks of it, there was more than one fair maiden here ready to indulge them.

“Of course!” One of the young men said, his garb bearing the Temerian coat of fleur-de-lys, “I’ll give him notice of your arrival immediately, he shall be most thrilled, Geralt of Rivia!”

And with that, he was off, dancing his way through the servants, jesters and musicians as he no doubt sought out his Lord. Geralt paid them no attention, but he could tell that the other nobles lining the table were still looking him up and down, perhaps still vainly hoping for him to indulge in their curiosities. Well, he supposed they could wait, for he would do no such thing, mingling in with the festivities not an urgent business of his tonight. He stood there, next to the stone pillar, keeping out of the way of the servants’ commotion, and took a step back into the shadows.

Geralt sighed in relief, the tension abating somewhat in his hasty retreat. He felt less naked here, under the cover of the stone structure, felt he could take a moment to compose himself, let his lungs expand and take in a greedy breath of fresh air he suddenly felt so starved of. The distinct tang of alcohol and sweetness still laced the hall, not exactly pleasant to breathe in, but he supposed it helped somewhat ease the uneasy feeling brewing in the pits of his stomach.

How long he stayed there, unmoving (and perhaps wishing for the wall to swallow him whole, thrice regretting even having come here in the first place), Geralt could not have said, but it seemed to be long enough for his undesired company at the table to get over their sudden interest in him, the young men now merrily clapping along to the performing musicians at the centre of the room – Geralt had no ear for the arts, knew not what would qualify as good music, but this was certainly not the most pleasant to listen to. As he looked over the seated guests, his eyes fell once again upon a familiar emerald feather and dark cap – Valdo Marx strutting around proudly with his ornate lute in hand, deft fingers playing another of his rather lude songs. The crowd seemed easy enough to please however, as they clapped along, bellowed words they knew too well, Marx’s squealing voice still a nuisance to his ear despite the effective choir at his back.

_He didn’t have anything on- No, better not to think such things._

There was nonetheless something lacking about his performance, a genuineness Geralt had been so used to that did not translate to the troubadour’s singing. A keen observer, the Witcher could see how his every move was calculated, how he rehearsed his strategically-placed winks, how he could dare approach a lady, songs of love and grandeur on his lips, reel her in and a the very last moment, pull back and let her fall, bereft, his words a dart of poison on his tongue. It was unpleasant to watch the guests so easily reeled in by his venom, set him on edge, how humans could so easily use their words as weapons against one another, sing of the most horrendous of things with such a tender look on their features.

Geralt would never master such a deceptive art, did not think he wished to either way. His eyes still on the troubadour, the joyous lilts of his voice, and all he could think of was how he had seen his honest songbird fly away, never to be seen or heard of again, the Witcher’s unforgiving curses heavy on its wings. _If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!_ Over a year later, and he could still hear the echo of his frustrated mistake, still remember the sting, the ache in his chest after as the echo of his ill-thought words turned to bitter ash in his mouth. It was better to keep his trap shut and his words to a sheer minimum, lest the shadow of his wrongdoing be given life once again.

He’d unleashed fury that day, let his emotions get the better of him, and the devastation that laid in their wake still terrified him, it was why Geralt readily accepted the fact that he’d never be a poet, had made peace with never truly being able to feel or express himself like a true craftsman would.

The pinching of a cord and the vibrations of a final note slithered through his thoughts, a thunder of applause arising to meet him as he set old wounds aside for now, decided he could tend to them alter, when the master of ceremony deigned to let them leave for the night. The troubadour bowed with practiced reverence, his hat in one hand as courtesy expected of him, a smug sense of pride painted upon his hidden face, lacing his limbs, in the very way he held himself. It was not a pleasant spectacle to assist to.

Geralt definitely understood, now, Jaksier’s aversion to the pompous fellow. Perhaps, had he been given the choice, he’d not have sent a djinn after him and wish for apoplexy to smite him where he stood, but the little Geralt had heard of the singer this eve was enough to wish him out of his life ten times over, and they’d not even talked once.

“Ah, Valdo Marx is quite the performer, don’t you think, Geralt of Rivia?”

Geralt startled, whipped around to come face to face with the young man in the Temerian garb once again, a much older gentleman close behind him. He had his arms crossed, seemed laid back, yet a frown was set upon his face, his one good eye beholding little pleasure, whether for Geralt or Marx, he could not tell. Given his accoutrements – that bespoke of wealth and a much finer quality than Geralt could ever hope to afford – there was little doubt as to who this was.

“Lord Kimbolt,” He said, inclined his head lightly – the man was still nobility, there was a certain civility to be respected in these halls, regardless whether he was his sovereign or not. “I did not see you coming, my apologies.”

“Oh worry not about etiquette tonight, Witcher,” the noble appeased, brushing away his concern with a wave of his hand, “I find the stifling formalities of nobility better taken in small doses. And you are not one known for decorum, if the stories and songs I hear of you are true. I certainly won’t begrudge you your moment of inattention.” He said lightly, before bringing his drink to his lips, by the looks of it, it seemed like a rather expensive wine.

Before he could find anything to say to that, the baron had a hand on his arm, beckoning him to follow, “Come dine by my side, I’m certain your company will be far more preferable than that of the other nobles I’ve been entertaining since this feast began.”

Well, there was not much else he could do but follow the man, so Geralt did so, obediently. It was still unsettling to him, having to weave his way through a sea of servants and performers, bare the weight of the _looks_ the people were giving him. They held no judgment – came as much as a surprise as the benevolence of the innkeeper and his patrons towards him, if Geralt were to be honest- but rather the same morbid curiosity, like he was a rare creature on display, their eyes dissecting every part of him, bare and vulnerable to their prying gazes. He did not like it one bit, neither the looks, nor the way the overly audacious women would try to grab hold of his sleeve (in the vain hopes of conversing with him, no doubt), or how the inebriated men would give his shoulder a hearty slap, like he were any other of their drunken companions.

Lord Kimbolt bade him to ignore them, that they were just merry men having a good time, and that he would make sure that none of this extravaganza would roam these halls tomorrow morning. By the look on his face, the noble did not like this silly ceremony any more than he did, for from where he followed closely behind him, Geralt could see the muscles of his back stretched taut, his good eye darting to every movement around them, no doubt trained to seek out even the hint of a disloyal member of his court. The stories that travelled the continent, of his legendary pride and gruff nature seemed to have not strayed far from the truth.

He still gave a polite nod of the head to his courtiers, showed them the little respect their inferior position commanded, even if Kimbolt did only see them as a means to an end, and bade a good evening to those who dared speak to him. It seemed to be a practiced dance, empty platitudes falling easily from his lips and gestures he knew to expect from those he deigned talk to. And this was precisely why Geralt didn’t attend these events, the awkwardness, as they weaved around people, the drunken greetings to them –Kimbolt allowed them but the frown etched onto his old face told Geralt what he would not put into words, that he didn’t particularly like this farce either- and only when they reached the few steps towards the corner of his grand table did the tension alleviate, somewhat.

There, were seated other nobles and their spouses, Geralt recognizing almost instantly the blues of Cintra of one man’s silk tunic. While it was true that he needed no introduction, and that the lords and their spouses all seemed to know who he was, Kimbolt stuck to his etiquette, Geralt having to stiffly listen to their every title and plaster a stiff smile he did not mean in the slightest on his face. It came as a relief, then, when he was shown to his seat, between the colours of Aedin on his left and Nilfgaard on his right, at the far end of the table.

At least the wine was nice, Geralt mused as, around him, the conversation quickly went back to empty platitudes between the nobles, platitudes he had no interest in and thankfully was not demanded to partake in. If the Lord of Aedin thought he needed his arse kissed because he deemed his hunter the only one capable of catching a unicorn, Geralt did not think such talk was worth him wasting his breath on. And really, at their age, didn’t these men –who had entire populations looking up to them for guidance- think it perhaps a little beneath them to indulge in such fantasies?

He humoured them when they raised their glasses –a toast, to Lord Kimbolt’s good health and a wish for the expedition to mend the frayed relationships between their kingdoms. They were met with thunderous applause from the people at their feet, who looked to them with such hope ad such high expectations, Geralt’s soul felt rather heavy with guilt at them being so easily deceived.

Instead of partaking in such frivolous talk with the Lords, and even less tempted to feign interest in whatever empty drivel their spouses were chattering about, Geralt sat back in his chair and nursed his beverage, absentmindedly swayed the carmine liquid in rhythm with the singing performers below before bringing the cup to his lips. It was surprisingly good –far better than he’d have expected in Temeria- and certainly beat the piss-poor ale he’d been served on one too many occasion in the down-trodden inns he’d occasionally halted in for a night. So Geralt sought to make it last: it was undoubtedly expensive, the sheer amount of coin Kimbolt had have to have paid for it running through the fruitful sweetness on the tip of his tongue, and he knew hoping for another glass before the night was over was rather a fruitless aspiration indeed. Their host was treating them to the very best of fineries, but in moderation, he knew well that Kimbolt held no love for anyone at this table –none of the aristocrats gathered here did- they were all but playing a game amongst themselves, like gods sat atop their towering shrines, thinking themselves all powerful because circumstances had favoured them so.

Geralt did not feel powerful, did not understand how one could see themselves as such. From up here, the men’s occasional glances towards him and the nobles beside him felt loaded with hidden intentions, unwanted, uncomfortable. It was far different from that of the looks he’d gotten at the inn – the crowd, while rowdy and loud, had at least been _honest_ in their openness, did not whisper secrets among themselves while their unsuspecting prey sat only inches away from them, none the wiser of their subjects’ chatter.

He’d have no doubt cursed if such foulness were permissible, Geralt was being paranoid. The men’s glances upon his person lasted but a second, too eager to turn back to their companions and sing drunkenly together, sloshing the ale in their tankard in rhythm to the music. No, these people were not trying to hide anything from him – what intimate confidences could Geralt possibly want from them anyway?- it was just his tired soul playing tricks on him again.

He definitely should have refused the coin and moved on, another contract would eventually have turned up, and Geralt likely wouldn’t have had to suffer an evening on display for his troubles. He supposed this was probably penance for his giving in to temptation so easily, and once this was over and done with, he’d make sure to stay away from nobility for a while, it turned out that it truly was better taken in small doses. Kimbolt’s coin had better be worth his troubles.

“I am relieved to see I’m not the only one here who gets little entertainment out of these grand spectacles.”

Startled, it took a moment for Geralt to realize it was to him the sentence had been addressed, and as he looked to his right, the Nilfgaardian was indeed looking at him, expectant. The Witcher did not particularly wish to entertain him: the man’s face was trimmed, perfectly well kempt, albeit not particularly inviting given the frown distorting his features somewhat. While his voice seemed light, he was not duped by the false pleasantry, and could sense that, not far beneath his austere features lurked a beast the likes of which he did not fancy crossing.

The man looked to be less than pleasant company – which was indeed saying something, Geralt had ample candidates to choose from on this fine evening – and if he was reading the look on his face correctly, - not that such a feat were ever truly easy, this one seemed to be rather careful in what he put out for others to see – he seemed as put off about the celebration as the Witcher was. And while misery loved company, as they said, Geralt held absolutely no desire to converse with him. He had half a mind of not answering him at all, let his sentence hang in the air between them, let his neighbour figure out that he did not wish to entertain his boredom by himself (he seemed smart enough), yet it felt an unbefitting decision to make. Geralt knew all of them here at this table were less than thrilled to share in each other’s company, that the masks adorned tonight for the sake of peace were uncomfortable and would be shed as soon as Lord Kimbolt brought an end to it, but he supposed that in the spirit of reconciliation, he ought to uphold the same standards as his neighbours. It pained him to give in, but he titled his head somewhat, let the man know he was all ears.

“Oh, but where are my manners,” The other hastened to amend, an easy smile plastered on his lips, “Vattier de Rideaux, Viscount of Eiddon, here on behalf of the Nilfgaard delegation. I’ve heard much about you, Witcher, it’s a pleasure finally meeting you in the flesh, Geralt of Rivia.”

As he said so, Rideaux turned to offer him his hand, and Geralt had to admit that he was taken aback for a moment, at the sight of a monstrous scar running down the right side of the man’s face, from beneath his right eye going all the way behind his ear. Whatever must have put it there must not have been a trifle, the viscount obviously not one to be messed with if he’d survived such a dreadful wound. Geralt did not like to think of what he did to lesser people who happened to try and cross him.

He took up his offering, shaking his hand, the man’s grip firm and assured in his own, quite unlike many a human he’d encountered over the course of his long life, and in that moment, he was unsure as to whether he ought to be pleased at the lack of fear or concerned at such a display of confidence. The viscount’s voice certainly seemed to be laced with the latter, his words few but to the point, yet it did little to ease much of Geralt’s discomfort. Rideaux was looking at him, eyes boring into his like he could _see_ down to the very core of his soul, made him feel bare, forced open and vulnerable, and he hated how he couldn’t stop himself from jerking back.

Rideaux merely sat back, entirely unaffected by his lack of composure, leisurely taking a sip from his cup like they were just old friends sharing an amicable chat. There was something quite unsettling to it all, the viscount always one step ahead and Geralt traipsing behind, the rules of whatever game they were now playing completely obscure to him. Treading carefully, he ventured he needed not introduce himself – the White Wolf was known throughout the continent, courtesy of his exploits and the song of a friend he no longer had- and the man clearly knew his name already, yet he was patiently waiting for him to talk first, and Geralt felt much more like a scared rabbit spied upon by a lurking wolf among the trees than a man enjoying good company at a banquet. “I caught wind of a hunt organized by Lord Kimbolt, and he seems willing to have me. Who am I to refuse an offer of good coin?”

Geralt had little love for pleasantries and empty talk, bar perhaps a couple of exceptions like musings over songs and poetry he’d grown used to over the years, but felt, somehow, that such things would not fly well with his stern-looking interlocutor. So instead, he cut to the chase, thought he might as well be honest.

“A call of destiny, perhaps then?” Rideaux supplied, sensing his distress, pouncing on the chance to make him feel ill at ease and eyes scrutinizing him like he was certain he could figure him out with just one look. Geralt was rather embarrassed to admit he certainly had the abilities for it.

And then, just as quickly, the weight of his stare was gone, the viscount instead turning back to their company, his gaze weighing heavily upon them in their judgment. His look was calculating, prying apart each and every soul his eyes landed upon, his hand still casually around his cup as he brought it once more to his lips, his gesture mundane, like any other attendee here this evening, yet Geralt was positive there was far more to his feigned disinterest. At least he had sense enough to not express his relief at not being the one to have looked away first, knew now that this man would have pranced upon his open weakness instantly and probably used it for all it was worth.

Somewhere, in the distance, he swore he could _feel_ the backwash of the waves, a rolling deep in his stomach threatening what little food he’d allowed himself tonight.

“I don’t believe in that shit,” He said, probably with far more harshness than he should have, but Geralt was tired, on edge, and Kimbolt’s wine, while certainly superior in quality to much of what he’d been treated to in the past year, not doing much in terms of bringing him some much needed peace of mind. He also wasn’t about to outright admit to Rideaux that his destiny had found him, that she was safe and sound in Kaer Mohren and training with his brothers as she awaited his return. Nilfgaard might be here in a genuine attempt at peace, but Geralt would not be fooled, the man had to earn his trust first. “I tend to make things go the way I want them to, regardless of what Destiny might have to say about it.”

“Never wiser words from a Witcher.” He agreed, the shadows of an aborted smile on his face as he laid back into his chair, eyes leaving him for the performance below. Again, he seemed to be a completely different person, the piercing stare he’d burned him with merely moments ago now gone, vanished into thin air, the viscount seemingly far more relaxed in his chair. His changes were unsettling, to say the least.

The merry cheer from the tables of squires and lesser men arose once more, quickly turned into a road or laughter as the court jester fell flat on his face and the music picked up, Valdo Marx and his ilk back to making their decidedly unpleasant cacophony they deigned call music. Rideaux looked at them, passive, the barest hint of amusement on his visage. The expression of joy distorted his features, like it had no place there, like he knew not what it was, or had banished it from his life entirely. And effectively, Geralt found it impossible to try and imagine the man partaking in any merriment whatsoever.

Two decidedly out of place people among the feast, and as if reminded of his discomfort, his mark began to itch again, crawling beneath his skin, demanding his attention. And perhaps it was the fatigue, remnants of last night’s lack of sleep, and perhaps it was the wine, but Geralt let his guard down for a moment, tending to his ailment as he pulled his sleeve up, thumb coming to soothe the irritated skin. It perhaps was not as effective as the rag and cold water had been, but he supposed it would be quite unbecoming of him to use Kimbolt’s expensive wine to soothe his ailment.

Viscount Rideaux, of course, was every bit as sharp as Geralt had pinned him down to be, and his discomfort did not slip his attention. “I did not think Fate saddled Witchers with a soulmate,” He said, a hint of curiosity lacing his tone as he tilted his head, slightly, as if trying to sneak a glance at what his mark looked like in full, “I thought your kind did not feel.”

Geralt made a point to hide it, did not wish for the man to be privy to such an intimate part of himself (even if it was merely the tip of the tattoo), lest he find a way to lord it over him for some ulterior motive, and brought his sleeve down, wishing for the pain to abide somewhat, or at least let him see this dinner to the end, “We don’t,” He said, tersely, “Fate just has a cruel way of fucking around with me, I venture.”

The other man hummed, “Well, I can only wish you the very best in finding them, isn’t such a thing all that we strive to achieve in our lifetimes?” He mused, and after a moment of consideration, he added spitefully, “Though I cannot guarantee that your other half will be so pleased to be bound to a Witcher.”

Geralt felt his other hand clench, had to remind himself that throwing punches was conduct unbecoming of him here, tonight. “Beats a two-faced nobleman from Nilfgaard.” He bit out instead, very aware of the whack on the head Yennefer and Vesemir both would probably give him for so brazenly antagonizing the man were they here. Geralt was not one for such pleasantries however, the man was still a Nilfgaardian, his people had still hunted Ciri down like an animal, still had her waking up in terror on too many a night, and while she may be safe with his brothers in Kaer Mohren, he was not about to forgive Nilfgaard for her trauma any time soon.

Much to his surprise, no chaos erupted at his ill thought-out response, Vattier merely sent a polite smile his way, no doubt used to such restraint given his position. Geralt found himself envying his self-control.

“Point taken,” Rideaux told him, nonchalant, as he pushed back his chair to rise. He stood there, tall and perfectly immobile, took a moment to breathe in the celebration. While Geralt was far from a seasoned veteran when it came to reading people’s emotions, namely because of what little he understood of the things, the viscount left little to the imagination as he held himself perfectly still, the restrained expression on his face betraying the fact that he absolutely _lived_ for this. This power and authority that inherently accompanied his position, that which he lorded over his lesser subjects, the Witcher was practically certain he absolutely _revelled_ in it. Yet, unlike the unrestrained sentiments exhumed by those seated at the long tables, he was not exuberant in his demeanour. There was a practiced caution to it all, Geralt noticed, as he bent over to retrieve his empty cup with controlled composure, every gesture, every expression depicted upon his features perfectly calculated.

Geralt felt bereft, adrift in an ocean of emotions he could not begin to understand, vulnerable to the whims of the wind and storm whose rumble sent an unpleasant shiver down his spine. He knew, somewhere, that this was not the way most humans he’d encountered behaved – they were slaves to their emotions, their fragile hearts too often overriding their intentions- knew, somewhere, that he should probably be feeling unsettled at the sight of it, if only he could still remember how.

So caught unawares was he that he missed the first half of what the man was saying to him, Geralt only half catching the end of his sentence, “… but I seem to have curried favour with whatever higher power may reside out there, for you see Geralt of Rivia, me and my other half, we’ve made things work out for the better, haven’t we, Julian?”

Had Geralt been paying attention, he might have noticed the slight edge to his voice, might have seen the way his lips branded his cheek in a fleeting burning caress and how his hand deliberately trailed along his partner’s shoulders with searing gentleness, might even have picked up on the slight tremor they left in their wake before he went to see to his refreshments, yet he remained oblivious to it all.

None of it really registered, for Geralt was pretty certain his heart had both skipped a beat and pounded far too loudly in his chest at the same time. Now that there was an empty space between them, he could plainly see the familiar face seated just that bit further away from him. He’d never expected for their paths to cross again – not after so callously wishing him out of his life and sending him away on the side of a mountain in a fit of misguided anger, what felt like a lifetime ago now - and he’d definitely not thought to ever find him in such company, yet he was certain his eyes were not deceiving him.

_“Jaskier?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> C4 might take slightly longer than my usual 10-day schedule, I'm sorry :(


	4. IV

_Fuck._

Fuck, it was him.

The gruff whisper of a familiar name hung in the air, and Geralt had had to double take to assuage his doubt.

 _It_ was _Jaskier._

_… Wasn’t it?_

For a fragment of a moment, uncertainty hung in the air and Geralt was not so sure. For while the man sat beside him certainly _looked_ like Jaskier – the Jaskier he remembered, at least – bore the same traits, the same hair, the same face, the same eyes – bright blue, a year since the Witcher had heatedly decided for them to venture down different paths and he’d never truly forgotten – were all undoubtedly _Jaskier,_ to Geralt, the person could just as easily have been an impostor, a doppler or merely be the fruit of his wild imagination, brought on by his lack of sleep and his glass of Temerian ale.

His neighbour may have bared an uncanny resemblance to Jaskier, a hint of familiarity was certainly to be found in the traits of his face, the colour of his hair and the curve of his jaw, yet when Geralt _really_ looked at him with a more critical eye, brow creased as he tentatively searched for even the barest of relics of a past shared together, he possessed not a shadow of the mannerisms the Witcher had grown so fond of over their years of companionship. This man did not have a presence larger than life, did not have songs ready to sprout from his lips, his fingers did not itch to join the musicians and perform to his heart’s content, his chest did not swell at the sound of music.

To say that Jaskier was subdued would have been quite the euphemism, and Geralt knew he seldom used such grand figures of speech. This Jaskier merely sat there, unsettlingly still, utterly _silent._ He may as well have been a ghost, for all intents and purposes.

And perhaps _that_ was what set Geralt’s senses off, perhaps there, was the source of the tendril of uneasiness he could feel coiling around his steel-heart and drowning his chest, perhaps _there_ sat the reason why he’d been so on edge ever since setting foot at this damned banquet. Jaskier was _never_ this reserved, knew not the language of silence. He sang to fair ladies and handsome men, to Roach and the little birds nestled in the tops of the chestnut trees, to ghosts guarding stone ruins of once grand palaces and little sprites hiding among the majestic fir trees of the forests alike - to the entire world, really - and took immense _joy_ in it. If anything, Geralt through _Jaskier_ ought to have been the one down there, owning the floor with the musicians, putting Valdo Marx to shame in front of their audience and sending the other troubadour back to Cidaris with his tail between his legs.

Yet he made not a move to join them.

It was Jaskier, of that the Witcher was now certain, yet it both _was_ and _wasn’t_ him at all.

The more Geralt looked, _really_ looked, and the more the name he’d uttered mere moments ago felt _wrong,_ ill-fitting for the man seated beside him. While his eyes may have remained the same during their time apart, as the seconds ticked by and still he’d not moved an inch, Geralt began to take notice that this Jaskier had changed, seemed no longer to be the friend he remembered. The expressiveness his eyes once beheld – bedazzled by the simplest of things, found beauty in everything, picked up on the little details that made his songs and poems so popular – was no longer to be found there, his gaze instead vacant, dare he say _empty_ now. His hair seemed slightly longer, brown strands now brushing his eyes, selfishly guarding them from the world, and his features seemed gaunt, belied an exhaustion Geralt only knew too well, born of having experienced too much, the bard far from the lively traveling companion he remembered him as. The Witcher could not make out much more with the dim lights of the grand hall, but he was pretty certain the doublet he was adorning was significantly less detailed than the extravagant craftsmanship he used to adorn with such pride – a monochrome black, and a golden Nilfgaardian sun embroidered with painstaking precision upon the sleeves just under his shoulders.

_What the fuck?_

_Why the fuck was he even wearing such accoutrements?_

“Jaskier, what are you _doing_ here?” He asked, wished, probably, to have added a “with him” to that too, as he spied Jaskier determinedly _not_ looking his way, his eyes instead sweeping over the room, closely following every movement by Viscount Rideaux as he meandered through the many guests present, headed for a table of Nilfgaardian delegates no doubt. Geralt may have had little knowledge or practice when it came to reading (or experiencing, for that matter) emotions and feelings, but one look at his friend was all he needed to garner the discomfort and worry clearly radiating off him in waves, his fingers dancing restlessly upon the table in that nervous habit of his. How Jaskier had landed himself in such company, the Witcher could not even begin to guess, and he liked not the knowledge he so clearly was lacking to understand what the two were _doing,_ exactly, together.

He was confused, to say the least. By Jaskier’s presence at this banquet and his attire both. The bard held no love for Nilfgaard in his heart, Geralt remembered with a striking clarity the tremor of fear that had laced his voice when Yarpen Zigrin had once suggested Cintra might eventually fall to the Empire, so _what on earth_ would possess him to would he be _here,_ in such company, and adorning such colours with visibly little complaint? It made no fucking sense to him.

Jaskier had yet to answer him, chose to remain disturbingly silent as he worried instead at the edge of his cuff, eyes dead set ahead and firm in their decision not to look his way be it even once throughout this dinner. Usually, Jaskier could not help _but_ run his mouth - would probably have told him every which way Valdo Marx was singing off-key or how he was holding his instrument with a ineptitude that did not befit a musician and want-to-be court bard, the point where Geralt might have begged him to give him a minute of peace – yet he seemed in no hurry to break the uncomfortable silence beginning to stretch between them, and if he would not, the Witcher supposed he had little choice but to set aside his habitual dislike of conversation and do so himself.

For a moment, fleeting but still there, the thought was not lost upon him that perhaps Jaskier did not _wish_ to talk to him, remembered with all too much clarity how they had parted on less than friendly terms – Geralt sending him away in a fit of uncontrolled ire and misplaced blame as he’d let his tight control on emotions he was not supposed to have slip, the cutting edge of words he had not truly meant in his heart whisking him out of his life, the bitter tang or regret left in his wake. Like him, the bard had had an entire year to stew over his outburst, let the seeds of resentment and anger fester and grow in his heart, ugly little weeds all too eager to turn it black with their rotten poison, and, really, the Witcher did not think he could really blame him if such a path was the one he’d chosen to take. Jaskier was free to do as he pleased with his life, that the bard now refused his company would be nothing but his well-earned penance, he supposed.

Such a realization did little to quell his desire to talk with him, however. Jaskier was here, in the flesh, sat beside him, and tired, pliant to his desires, and relieved at finding a friendly face in this ocean of unfamiliarity and ceremonies he was not used to, Geralt let them speak for him in a moment of weakness, as he implored, “Jaskier, please, say something. I-”

“I can’t talk to you, Geralt.”

Geralt tried very hard to ignore the faint twist in his chest at Jaskier’s scant words, his little seed of hope crushed before even being given the chance to grow, carried away by a gust of wind when all he’d hoped for was a chance to plant and nurture it. The Witcher would have been a terrible liar were he to tell himself he’d not thought about this encounter during many night both on the road collecting whatever coin he could, and later in Kaer Mohren, after a long day overseeing Ciri’s training alongside his brothers. He’d thought about it, then, in the privacy of his own bed, about what he would have said to Jaskier and the bard to him were their paths ever to cross again, and call him a fool, but Geralt had stubbornly clung on to the faint hope that he would have at least humoured him the time of a conversation.

This was about as far off from anything he could have thought up. It did not go unnoticed to him, how the first time the bard had uttered his name in a full year was for naught but a rejection of his company, how it was quick, to the point, lacking in the metaphors and personifications that were so inherent to his language, a plain refusal of his presence here, by his side. No doubt had it been too outlandish for the Witcher to expect for things to instantly return to how they’d once been, Geralt knew well that he had hurt Jaskier, that day, that would have to earn his friend’s forgiveness, but never once had he entertained the possibility that Jaskier would be so cold as to not even grant him that chance.

If Jaskier’s attire had thrown him off, it came as a pang to realize he was left totally adrift when even his voice sounded not like his companion’s. Quiet, clinical, and very much devoid of the inflexions Jaskier loved to imbue his speech with so much, there was something profoundly lacking in his words, as if he’d somehow forgotten the linguistic artists he used to once be, as if language meant nothing to him, his tone bespeaking not of two companions who’d known each other for close to a decade, but that of two strangers, trying to be polite to one another. It felt _wrong,_ this sudden distance between them, made Geralt feel exposed and scrutinized in this mockery of a social interaction, with nobody to turn to.

It was worse than wrong, for he knew Jaskier, and Jaskier remembered him, his name, had given him the dignity of calling him as such at least.

Perhaps it was worse than being forgotten, Geralt mused.

“I’m sorry, Geralt, really. It’s…” And he hesitated for a minute, hands restless once again as Jaskier searched for the right word, _“nice_ seeing you, though. I think. ”

Only Jaskier was not _seeing_ him at all, Geralt noted, had not even looked his way once, eyes locked on the performers below, and the realization came not without a hint of an ache in his heart he tried very hard to ignore _–_ _Witchers didn’t feel._ His body was tired from his lack of a good rest, the festivities at the inn last night having somewhat interrupted his sleep, and his senses were no doubt dulled by what little wine he’d allowed himself earlier. It was probably why the emotion snuck past his weakened defences, the painful little thing lodging itself none too gently in his heart.

Geralt clamped down at the realization, shut it off before it could even begin to bloom and do anymore damage.

If anything, he thought _he_ ought to have been the one apologizing, had meant to do so ever since the weight of his words had fully hit him like a tidal wave, when, eventually, Geralt too, had made his way down that cursed mountain by his lonesome. Jaskier had been long gone, by then, and as Geralt had set off with Roach once again, he’d not thought searching for him would have been welcomed after what he’d said to him.

The apology hung at the tips of his lips, begging for life to be breathed upon it, yet right now seemed rather ill advised, such a personal conversation ought not to take place in such a public setting, Geralt thought. It may have been stewing in his heart for a year, the Witcher determined to actually _say_ the words next time he crossed paths with the bard, but now seemed not the time, and before he could, perhaps, change his mind, Jaskier reached forward for his glass, grip unsteady around the rim, clearly putting an end to what Geralt might have said before he’d even uttered it.

His other hand nervously tapped the music below, the tune no doubt familiar for someone with a repertoire as vast as Jaskier, and Geralt wondered, for a moment, why he was not playing alongside them. The minstrels and singers were entertaining, of that there was little doubt, the entire audience was clapping in rhythm, and if Geralt looked to the centre of his table, even Lord Kimbolt seemed mildly amused by their performance, yet to Geralt’s fine ear, the very essence of their art seemed to be lacking in finesse and craft. Finesse and craft he’d grown accustomed to with Jaskier, who spent far too long pouring over rhymes and rhythm, and he found himself wondering, then, why he was not among them.

“I hear that Valdo Marx is the one playing the lute, over there.” He said, more as a means to start a conversation than out of real interest for the musician, anything, really, to get a semblance of normality between them going. “If I recall correctly, he’s the one you sent the djinn after, isn’t he?”

“Yes.”

And after Geralt let a second fly by, it seemed it was all Jaskier was willing to answer him, a mere _yes._ A year ago, he would have no doubt gone into the fine detail of what, exactly, the other bard must have done to garner his ire so, and Geralt would have listened half-heartedly no doubt, sat back in the corner of an inn, over a warm plate of food. Geralt might have been a reluctant participant, certainly could not have boasted of a similar knowledge to the poet when it came to how to best insult people, but at least they would have shared something pleasant together.

Geralt wished, then, that Jaskier would tell him what Marx had done to him, for him to loathe him so, how the troubadour from Cidaris had come to be his mortal enemy, be it a petty grudge of a story of profound heartbreak, Geralt minded not which tale Jaskier would spin him. Anything was better than his silence, than this parody of a conversation.

Jaskier did not indulge him.

“Well, I can understand why,” Geralt said, grimly, grimacing as the troubadour struck his cords once again as he strode with panache across the room, winking at swooning ladies and parading in front of husbands, no doubt revelling in the attention. The Witcher may not have been a connoisseur in matters of music and art, but in the several years’ worth of travels he’d shared with Jaskier, Geralt would have liked to think that he’d grown accustomed, somewhat, to a high quality of music, “He lacks fineness, sounds like a screeching cat, my ears are hurting. He might be entertaining to look at, but there isn’t much beyond that.” He grumbled, for there was certainly not much talent there for the bard to boast of, Marx seemingly content with jaunty tunes that were popular instead of making even the slightest attempt to craft pieces of art with his voice.

Jaskier had yet to comment, he noticed.

“You could give them a performance, surely.” Geralt suggested, as he recalled another celebration, a lifetime ago, where he watched destiny play out, and Jaskier charm the guests present with naught but a lute and his voice. Things had been so much simpler, back then, back before destiny and poisonous words he’d thrown his way with careless abandon had ruined everything.

He was also pretty certain that Jaskier could outclass Marx with ease, but it still did not seem like he was about to challenge his greatest rival, by the looks of things. When Geralt craned his neck around his chair, his trusted lute was nowhere in sight, and had he not been thrown off enough tonight, the instrument’s absence might have been far more unsettling than it was – wherever Jaskier went, his trusted lute forever followed in his shadow, was never far from the bard, and he there was no reason Geralt could think of for him not to have it with him right then.

“I don’t sing much, anymore.”

That effectively did make Geralt snap back up to Jaskier instead of the floor, and for a moment he thought he’d either misheard or that it was merely a poor attempt at banter from his friend. Upon further consideration, however, there was no trace of humour to be found in his voice, no playful slap on his shoulder, no laugh, no _“I got you good there, Geralt, almost thought I fooled you for a moment!”,_ nothing at all. Jaskier was serious, far too serious even, an expression that seemed oddly out of place upon his features when Geralt could so easily remember him laughing good-heartedly, when the bard tried cheering him up, or when he waxed poetic with careless abandon to pretty ladies and flowers alike.

Singing was something so inherently… _Jaskier._ Geralt could not say with certainty when the two had begun to go hand-in-hand, but both words were entertained together. Singing was part of Jaskier, made up a core component of the very fabric of who he was, laced both his voice and his body when he strummed his lute with practised skill when they halted at a crowded inn just like he would at the edge of a deserted forest. Jaskier would sing, then, to the little birds perched up high in their nests, the trees, flowers and butterflies – to Geralt too, though he might never have said so aloud.

“What do you mean, you don’t sing? I thought that was what bards _did.”_

“Vattier does not much like my singing, he appreciates finer arts than the services my humble profession has to offer, so I don’t really sing any longer. Truly, Geralt, you should see the wonderful paintings adorning the walls of his castle, they really are a sight to marvel at, easily put to shame any talent I may have once professed to have.”

And marvel at them Geralt might have done, at least in thought if not in the flesh, if he’d not first felt somewhat thrown off at the way Jaskier talked of being severed form his craft in far too casual a manner, like it mattered not to him if his voice no longer sang.  
Jaskier had prided himself in his voice, and while it had certainly earned them some welcomed extra coin in a past in which they’d travelled together, when Geralt had foolishly first though that it meant little more than a means to make bread, he’d grown to listen, after a while. It hadn’t been easy, at first, but as he would sit in the back of a tavern, nursing a tankard of ale or digging into a warm meal while Jaskier sang to their esteemed audience, it had not been lost on him, the way he gave inflexions to certain words, swayed with his music, plucked his lute with practiced fingers. Singing, the Witcher had learnt, was part of the bard, coloured his tone and his tenure. To entertain the thought of him being somehow separated from his craft, of Jaskier and his songs no longer going hand in hand, Geralt was not certain he wished to think how well that conversation had gone down with the viscount.

“People not liking your singing never stopped you before, if I recall, it’s how we met.” He said instead, tried not to think of the pang of loss at the memory of a once friendly stranger telling people to _‘fuck off!’_ and daring then to approach him with talk of bread in his pants. Jaskier hadn’t cared much either when Geralt had asked him to stop – not that he really minded, would now have gladly taken his barker back as a traveling companion – had instead merrily strummed his lute by his side as he kept him and Roach company. Had it not been inappropriate in light of the company they had, Geralt might even have told him he’d missed it a little, in their year apart, the oppressive silence of his long journeys, while welcomed at first, after he’d made it down the mountain, had grown rather unpleasant after a while.

He might even have entertained the thought of seeking Jaskier out, just for the noise and the company, and then Geralt had thought better of it, knew he was undeserving of his companion after what he’d said. Jaskier would probably not have wished to travel with him any longer after his outburst anyway.

“People change in a year, Geralt.” Jaskier said simply, eyeing his glass once again, and Geralt tried very hard to not let the unnaturalness of their interaction get to him. “I’ve grown, left all of that silly bard nonsense behind. It is ill suiting when one is partnered to nobility.”

And indeed, it came as an unpleasant confirmation to see Jaskier hold himself so still, straight and tall the way a highborn would be expected to, eyes unnatural and empty, closed to the prying of others who would seek to exploit him with naught but a calculated glance. Geralt held out, at first, hoped for a familiar quip or a laugh, waited for Jaskier to brush it off and tell him it was all some elaborate joke, that he _got him good this time, didn’t I?_

Only he didn’t. The sentence died out, and Jaskier went quiet, offered nothing more as he sought out his drink, and even such a mundane gesture did not sit quite right with Geralt. His entire being was too stiff, save perhaps for his hand, and the bard adeptly hid the tremor in his fingers as he curled them around his cup, kept it still despite his obvious discomfort.

The Jaskier he had once have travelled with would never have sought to keep it from him, would have put on grand theatrics about how painful it was, might even have lamented a potential amputation _‘and then what bard shall I be, Geralt?’_ he would say, _‘how can I possibly ever hope to outmatch Valdo Marx if I cannot even string a few notes together?’_ and the Witcher would probably have ignored it at best, perhaps offer him a remark in jest were he in the mood to humour him. Jaskier would then likely have given him an academic recital on what constituted a skilled lute-player, with examples and all, until he either ran out of words to say – which, knowing him, was highly unlikely – or Geralt eventually gave in and asked him to stop, for poor Roach’s sake if not his own. Once upon a time, Geralt might have lamented such a talkative companion.

Now he almost missed it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sincerely apologize for how embarrasingly long this took, I'm very sorry.
> 
> Given that this chapter ended up being something like 7K, I elected to split in half, so as to not make it too clunky, which I'm considering for the rest of this story too to perhaps update more regularly. Thank you for your patience! :)


	5. V

He’d meant to ask him, then, what this new attitude of his was all about – not because he _cared_ (for Geralt could not feel, was still stubbornly of a mind that emotions were not for his brutish heart to hold), of course not – but merely because it would at least give them something to talk about, give them some semblance of a conversation if nothing else. Perhaps it would have been but a mere illusion of what Jaskier and he had shared in the past, perhaps Geralt foolishly wished to believe that one honest exchange with the bard would be all it took for things to go back to the way they were, but a rustling at the end of the table cut him short of doing so, and the question remained forever unasked, as the viscount made his way back, a replenished glass of wine in his hand.

Geralt did decidedly not like the way he could creep up like that, silent and unnoticed, until it was already too late.

“Geralt, I- ”

Whatever Jaskier had hoped to say in the sparse seconds before Viscount Rideaux came back remained forever unasked, lips going silent once again as the man lazily raked his free hand from his shoulders to his neck, flicked his fingers just slightly and Jaskier tipped his head back, obediently kissed him on the lips, giving Geralt a glimpse of the intimacy the two men had probably built between each other during the past year. The Witcher might have commented that such affection was probably better suited for the seclusion of their room, away from the prying eyes of men always in search of a good story to entertain themselves with, but thought it not his place to intrude. He let them, gave them a modicum of privacy as he turned away, dared only to look back their way when the viscount slid back into his chair, cutting the pair off from each other. Geralt did not need to see Jaskier to garner the unease practically rolling off him in waves. For what, exactly, he could not say, for they’d done no wrong nor said any heartfelt confessions in the short time they’d been allotted.

It was at that thought, that Geralt realized he may have wished to offer the bard an apology before, for he was not certain when – _if,_ he hastily amended - they’d get a moment to themselves again in the future, the viscount certainly seemed not like the kind of man to let Jaskier out of his sight for a moment more than strictly necessary, if the possessive hand around his forearm was anything to go by.

Maybe it bothered him, just a little.

“I trust my dearest Julian did not prove to be too cumbersome company during my short absence, Witcher? I know he can be quite a handful sometimes. Alas, my Julian still persistently seeks to impose his talk upon those who wish not to hear it.” He said easily, hummed appreciatively at whatever expensive wine he’d brought back with him.

Geralt was tired, he liked not these kinds of ostentatious events, the noise was getting to him and however good the Temerian wine was claimed to be, it was doing little to dull his senses, Jaskier’s elusive non-answers might have still been weighing upon his mind more than he would have liked to admit and now the viscount was seeking his participation in a game of word-fencing and small-talk. Truth be told, the Witcher was merely not up for it, right now, thought such linguistic feats were more Jaskier’s domain of expertise – usually, he would let the bard sweet-talk them through the grand theatrics of whatever fancy event they happened to get involved in when such skills were called for – yet much like before Rideaux’s departure, he said nothing.

That the man also called Jaskier by a name that did not belong to him, and implied that Jaskier was anybody’s person but his own did not sit quite right with him either, and Geralt thought, for a second, that the bard might have taken offense at such abrasive claims made towards his person – Melitele knew he could talk a lot and say nothing, now might have been precisely the time to put such skills to good use - but not a word passed his lips. He let it go for a beat, and then another, and when still Jaskier had yet to comment, to protest what did not feel quite right to even Geralt, the Witcher supposed that, after so many years of the bard defending his honour to ungrateful humans and drunkards whose lose tongue struck him with insults and calamities, the least he could do in return was question such appellation.

_“Your_ Julian?”

“Why yes,” The viscount said, looked almost offended that Geralt would even seek to question such an endearing appellation, and then just as quickly schooled his features before the Witcher even had a moment to attempt to understand. He was floundering, struggling to catch up to whatever game it was he was playing for he knew not the rules nor had he the skills to keep up, let alone best him. “Oh, I take it he has not told you yet, then?”

_Told him what?_ Granted, Jaskier had not exactly been the most talkative tonight, but as they both looked his way – well, in Geralt’s case, as much as he could see of the bard shielded behind Rideaux - he was not meeting either of their gazes, stubbornly seemed to find interest in whatever comings-and-goings were happening among the sea of tabled guests at their feet.

“Really, Julian,” The viscount admonished, turning back to Jaskier, one hand on his shoulder again, “I thought you would have been positively thrilled to make the big announcement to your good friend.”

“I…” Though Geralt could no longer see his face, he did notice how Jaskier’s hand clenched unperceptively around his cup, “I thought you would rather do the honours yourself.”

He was positively lost, understood not whatever had gone unsaid between them, but was certain there was something he was missing to understand the full picture. Beside him, Rideaux’s features softened, somewhat (well, as much as a man such as himself could be qualified with such an adjective, Geralt mused), and he was almost tempted to think that it might have made him better company than when he sported his previously calculating look, eyes hungry for even the slightest slip-up on his part. Geralt had to remember, then, that despite his obvious skill in steering small-talk and conversation, Rideaux remained a human, remained one whose privilege it was to feel and emote where the Witcher no longer could. If he looked somewhat pleased, then surely this game they were playing would at last stop.

And indeed, the hint of a smile distorting his face when he next spoke was _painfully_ human, and it would have been what he would have noticed, had his words not shaken him.

“See, Witcher, Julian and I share a bond, have for nigh eight months now. Isn’t that right, my little flower?”

He’d have liked to put it on the wine, or perhaps blamed his mishearing on the boisterous guests who filled the Great hall with laughter and song, thought surely that he must have misheard something. Was he really implying what he thought he was implying? That both he and Jaskier -

“Bonded, as in-?” Geralt gestured between them, though he knew not how to describe such a relationship. And really, he thought, who could blame him? Geralt’s heart had long ago ceased to indulge in such weaknesses humans called emotions, had had to let go of them to become the Witcher he was today, how was he to understand matters so frail pertaining to the human heart and it’s feelings when he no longer had any?

“A bond of the soul, yes. Call it fate, destiny, whatever you wish, really, but we are now bound, in body and soul, as was meant to be, for we share a mark. Isn’t that right, my little flower?”

Geralt wished Jaskier would refute it, would tell him he’d probably had too much wine and that they ought to be on their way, wished that he would clear up his confusion and ask to be his route companion again, save him from this floundering. And, really, Jaskier, travelling bard who readily named himself after flowers and dainty things and some high-ranking nobility from Nilfgaard, who no doubt oversaw matters of violence and war so regularly that he must have, at one point, become desensitized to it all, it seemed so ludicrous to pair together, Geralt thought that either destiny must have had a particularly distasteful sense of humour to fate them to be together or that, surely, the man was jesting.

But as he tried looking at his once traveling-companion for an answer, he did not refute the claim, did not say anything, as a matter of fact. Merely acquiesced, a hint of a curve on his lips like it was actually real, as if it were _true,_ and how could Geralt disprove it when Jaskier was telling him of it’s veracity in all but words?

“Soulmates, really?” He had to question, still, for it seemed too absurd, too outlandish, too impossible, even to a non-believer like himself. He’d heard the stories, of course, of soulmates coming together, and sharing everything from the most brazen of emotions to the most intimate of thoughts, but had long ago ceased to believe in such fantasies would ever be his to experience, had left them behind at the door of Kaer Mohren, along with his fragile childish heart and all its wild aspirations.

“It’s true, Geralt, as mad as it may seem.”

Geralt knew not what was worse, the honesty that laced Jaskier’s voice as he said so so effortlessly (and really, why should Geralt have wished him to do so otherwise, Jaskier and his emotions were not his to own, if he wished to let him know he was honestly happy, then it was not his place to stop him), or that along with such a damning verdict came the first genuine smile he addressed him of the evening, courtesy of the Viscount and not himself.

Geralt tried to tell himself it did not affect him.

Just like he tried not to think too much about how it was far too quick, and far too to the point for Jaskier, who held a particular affection for poetic ramblings and adding a copious amount of superfluous to his language when he would talk to him. Perhaps their year apart had changed him in more ways than one, it would seem. He no doubt would have pondered on it more, had Rideaux not decided to interrupt his musings instead, dismissing Jaskier all together with far too much ease, and once again pulling the metaphorical rug from right under his feet.

“Anyway,” He said, casually, “How is the wine? I trust Lord Kimbolt to have nothing but the very best. I would indulge, but I’m afraid I do not fare well with the strong liquors of the North, and I wish not to fall off my horse come tomorrow morning. We have, after all, a long journey ahead of us, Witcher.”

Geralt did decidedly not share his appetite for idle small talk, nor did he feel at ease with having so little control in their conversation, and was certain that, were he to indulge in more liquor than was strictly necessary, he might inadvertently let slip something important only to realize his mistake to late. He had far too much at stake to even tempt Fate in that regard.

Still, this banquet remained, at the end of the day, a social event, and while he knew not the art of adorning masks and disguising his speech like the other nobles gathered here, Geralt knew the basics of how things went well enough. Despite the cheer and merriment, peace remained fragile – it was why Lord Kimbolt had organized this ostentatious hunt in the first place – and while Temeria’s attempt at a tentative peace between the warring kingdoms was certainly an admirable ambition, Geralt did not wish to be out of action if things were to go south. Dulling his senses in wines and similar beverages was a death sentence, Vesemir had once told him, and with Nilfgaard still out for poor Ciri, he thought it more prudent to stay on his guard and try to give the pretence of politeness.

That his circumstances meant his compliance to such etiquette was necessary did not mean that Geralt _liked_ it, when he spied Rideaux’s heavy hand settling on Jaskier’s wrist, the bard resolutely looking elsewhere, a tangible weariness far too easily discernible coming off him in waves. That, he could understand, at least, and Geralt tried not to think too much at how quickly he latched onto the hint of similarity they shared. Nor did he linger on his receding uneasiness when he spied a smile from the bard – achingly familiar, the way Jaskier used to when Geralt dared indulge his musings about which one of his rhymes sounded better. For a moment, fleeting but there, he forgot about where they were, forgot about the company they were in, the silent presence of the one person here he knew a soothing balm on his nerves.

His unease was all in his head _– of course_ it was – Geralt muttered a curse under his breath, blamed the past year on the run with Ciri, blamed the man with the black feathered helmet and his own paranoia, blamed the noise and the ale and his exhaustion for his wandering imagination. If whatever higher beings be out there could grant him just tonight to set aside his worries and indulge in a fine meal and palatable entertainment, the Witcher thought it not too much to ask of them. Everyone else gathered here tonight was having a fine time, so why could he not allow himself one eve of high spirits?

The ale, as it happened, was decent. Perhaps not what his tastes preferred – that title would probably have gone to whatever was kept in the cellars of Kaer Mohren, Vesemir keeping resolutely quiet about his liquor’s provenance, lest one of them (most likely Lambert) get the outlandish idea to seek out too much of it – but it was pleasant enough.

“It’s decent,” He replied, remembered it to be impolite to leave a question hanging, and as little as he may have liked such formalities, the Viscount had not done anything to garner his ire, yet. “Lord Kimbolt has good taste and no doubt an array of fine and knowledgeable vinters at his service. If he deigns share more of this with us along the journey, I may even think it bearable.” He mused.

“I concur,” Rideaux said after indulging in another taste, before once again switching the conversation completely, “I must ask you, Geralt of Rivia, for it is a question that weighs heavily on my mind, what interest have you in a unicorn? Forgive me if it seems rather uncourteous, but such a fine creature seems rather far away from the monstrous beasts your brutish kind usually hunt. One cannot help but wonder, after all.”

The scar around his eye pinched as he asked the question, and upon his features belay nothing of an honest question. Geralt thought it regrettable, that even such an innocent inquiry no doubt held ulterior motives, and was grateful he’d not been planning on drinking enough to loosen his tongue. If Rideaux wished to play such a petty game, he supposed he could stoop low enough to meet him half-way and give him some semblance of truth, perhaps he might even come out of this journey a skilled spokesperson around two-faced nobility, who knew?

Truth was, he could have just as easily _not_ been here tonight, he could have ignored the innkeeper back at the inn, call the whole affair a waste of his valuable time and have been on his way who-knew-where by morning, back on his monster-hunting business no doubt. It would have been so easy, just him and Roach, like it had been for a long time, coin may have been scare, but Geralt was hopeful he’d have eventually stumbled upon a generous soul in need of his help and ready to offer him a decent reward for it.

Instead, he’d listened, and here he was.

That Jaskier just _happened_ to be here too, of all things, well Geralt was not sure what to call it, but did not wish to attribute such a turn of events to Fate or Destiny or some other supernatural bullshit, he believed not in that nonsense. Just… _Circumstances,_ then.

“I’m not in this for politics, if that’s what you’re getting at. I have no interest in your kind’s machinations.” He said, for it was true: Witchers had no business with the political strife of humans, while he was free to have an opinion on the men and women in power, it was not his kind’s prerogative to get involved in their matters, Geralt had no part to play in Lord Kimbolt’s grander scheme, he just sorely needed the money. “It’s a mere coincidence, really. I happened to be in the area, the Lord is offering good coin, and I find myself in need. Why would I refuse?”

If the words tasted like ash upon his tongue – bitter and acrid – as he said so, well nobody but Geralt ever need know about it.

“That’s all it is?”

“Need it be anything else?” He countered, rather unwilling to entertain his curiosity any longer.

“Of course not.” And he raised his glass, invited Geralt to do the same.

“Well, let us drink, then. To monsters, money, and good fortune.”

He supposed he could give him that, at least, and so they toasted, the _clink_ of their glasses ringing unpleasantly in his ears as the red wine sloshed around inside.

It did not feel like a merry toast.

It felt like passing a death sentence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next part should be out relatively soon, it's coming along nicely for now :)
> 
> Thank you for your kind comments and kudos so far :)


	6. VI

The fragile white tendrils of the sun crept up into the morning sky, blazing through dawn’s pink and purple hues like a flash of lightning. In the palace’s garden the birds in the trees chirped, and the branches rustled, life awakening. It might have been beautiful, once, Jaskier might even have sat down and taken his sweet time in crafting a clever poem or a romantic ballad out of such a bucolic setting, perhaps he’d even have considered asking Geralt his opinion on it too.

Instead, as he vacantly looked out the window, all Jaskier could think was that it looked dull. The sun was too sharp, the running of the fountain at the centre of the court a grating background noise for the little birds perched upon it, and their loud chirping might have been irritating, were he capable of feeling anything but emptiness towards it. The blooming flowers might have been delicate and downright sublime, as they sat in clusters of deep purples and rich pinks paving the way to the fountain, and in a more foolish past of his poetic mind, he might even have dared draw silly similarities between the blossoming lilacs and a certain Yennefer of Vengerberg, but such musings were rather silly, and had no place in the life of a courtier.

So Jaskier thought of them as merely flowers. He knew he probably should have been feeling something stronger towards it, should have felt excited at the prospects of adventure too. Perhaps, if he could remember the distant feeling of the ghost of exultation, he might have been able to come up with something more acute towards the picture, but it was long ago, now, that he’d forgotten how. He didn’t miss the sensation, however, had probably forgotten how to feel such a thing as _longing_ too.

Instead, he supposed he ought to have been content, content was all right. Content was not too brazen an emotion to feel.

He found it difficult, these days, to muster enough feelings to appreciate the simple elegance of the outdoors.

His eyes burned, as he lay there, immobile, absently looked out to the sky outside through the window. Jaskier had not slept. He slept little these days anyway, his greed to fully enjoy every second of the small privacy afforded to him keeping him awake.

Vattier had slept, Jaskier knew, for he could feel the crumbs of his contentedness in his heart, as the first rays of sunshine warmed his face. He knew, for the rain had stopped on the coast, had faded back to nothing but a few grey clouds on the horizon, damp drizzle hovering over the sea, still ever there, but generous enough to offer him a respite however brief it may have been. Jaskier hoped his satisfaction would last, for with his abated presence in him, he felt just that little more like himself. The viscount was still _there,_ of course, and he had no illusions that he would ever leave him entirely, for he was bound to come back like he always did – like he had told Geralt last night, they _were_ bound by the soul, after all – but Jaskier would deal with that when it came to it. For now, the man’s fulfilment was enough to patch up his empty heart.

Jaskier had not moved, after Vattier had heaved himself off him last night, sought his well-earned rest on his side of their bed. He’d let him curl his arm around him, did not protest when the viscount’s unguarded emotions seeped through his fingers and crawled their way into his flesh, his hand was not harsh, upon the skin of his back. If he’d still had a daring bone in his body, Jaskier might even have given something back to him, might have run his fingers along the scar on his face, fussed and loved it like he had once, with a Witcher’s many cicatrix when he would tend to them in their shared room in an inn, with his soaps and oils, tell him there was nothing to be ashamed of. Geralt had let him, Vattier did not – not unless he asked it of him, at any rate, and such occurrences were extremely rare - and it was not Jaskier’s place to push.

It was fine, he’d grown used to it, it was not as if he really minded all that much.

Outside, the little birds sang their sweet song, as the sun rose, the first rays of light breathing life into the leaves of the trees and colouring them vibrant emerald and deep basil. Had Jaskier still had a heart, had he still been able to muster anything towards such a majestic tableau, he thought he might even have composed a song about it, probably would have been of a mind that such beauty ought to have been shared and not selfishly guarded, would have heeded the call to his heart and penned it down with metaphors and hyperboles aplenty. Yet as he watched the spectacle unfold now, Jaskier thought it looked nothing short of _dull,_ for he found it hard, to find beauty in the little things. His silly musings were, after all, superficial, Vattier would say, he needed not waste his time with them.

So, Jaskier thought, perhaps it _might_ have been a beautiful morning, quite befitting for the beginning of their departure on a grand adventure, and perhaps the grand beauty outside might have bespoken of the magnitude of what they were about to embark on. To the poet, however, it was merely a morning like any other, it just _happened_ that, today, they were going to set out on their journey, nothing more.

Around him, he noticed, Vattier’s touch had gone cold. It wasn’t _unwelcomed,_ though, he was pretty certain that he liked the company. Jaskier thought that, if his body could remember what _pleasurable_ felt like, then maybe he would have felt something strongly akin to that, and so he tried not to linger too much on the suffocating press of skin and bedsheets around him, how it felt hard to breathe with the weight of Vattier’s intense satisfaction upon his heart, dared not pull away from it all, for he knew that he ought to be appreciating this. By Melitele, they would probably not share something like this anytime soon once they hit the road later that day.

If the memories of what had transpired last night, in the intimacy of their bed, still clung to him too, cloying, overwhelming, he tried not to think about it too much, thought contemplating on the different shades of pinks and blue colouring the sky as morning chased away the last vestiges of what had transpired the night before a far more preferable distraction.

The colours were soft, blended together almost seamlessly, and maybe Jaskier wished he could feel them on his skin too, as he wondered what it would be like, to touch the sky, contemplated the thought that, maybe one day one day, humans would grow wings and live among the ethereal clouds, would get to-

“Must you really waste your time on such naïve musings, Julian?”

A murmur in his back, a gust of wind upon the waves as he felt hot breath on his neck, the intimate burning caress of a hand upon his hip. Vattier was awake, and he wondered, for a moment, how he’d not sensed it in his heart.

“I’m sorry.” Jaskier apologized, looking down, put his hands over the ones around his waist. Vattier was right, this was a complete waste of time, he really ought to stop his ridiculous daydreaming sometime soon. “I’ll endeavour not to do so again.”

Thankfully, the viscount was kind enough to not drag his mistake out, instead said, “I did not think you’d be awake this early.”

Jaskier could have told him that sleep tended to remain somewhat elusive to him, for he had no real appetite for it anymore. He could have told him that he usually stayed awake at night, long after Vattier had finished demonstrating him his affection with gentle whispers in his ear and an assured hand on his hips, elsewhere too if he so pleased, Jaskier detached from a stiff body that felt not quite like his own as he would lose himself in the intricate carvings of their room’s ceiling. He could have told him that he was always awake at the crack of dawn, eyes burning from a lack of rest and shoulders heavy with the extra fatigue he carried around with him like a condemned man’s burden.

He stayed quiet instead, knew such silly concerns were for his heart to nurse alone.

“You did good last night, Julian. I’m proud of you.” The kiss at the back of his ear was surprisingly pleasant, he thought distantly, a little warmth oozing into his skin at the whispered praise. Jaskier let himself have it, lapped up the little affectionate crumbs like a man desperate for even the slightest hint of genuine care. He could almost imagine it feeling nice, as it seeped into his skin.

He did not protest when Vattier chose to further express his approval, merely let his hand guide his chin up to look him in the eyes, met him half way and complied when he sought to kiss him on the lips.

It did not feel like anything, and Jaskier did not really mind that either.

“I trust I can count on your continued good behaviour for the duration of this expedition of ours, Julian?” He asked after a breath, once they parted.

“Of course,” Jaskier did not even have to take a moment to consider his answer, for it came automatically to him now. If his voice felt empty, lacked a spark of curiosity or a hint of his earlier fulfilment, he supposed it was only because Vattier must have fed off it, consumed it entirely. He didn’t mind, really, if the viscount was happy, when the bard tentatively sought out the shadow of his emotions in the bond, he supposed that was fine, he could exist with that.

“Good man,” He told him, tapped his cheek lightly before rising. Had he the audacity still to dare do so, Jaskier might have reciprocated, might have let a touch linger upon the scar next to his eye, ran a gentle finger along it and composed a poem of it on the spot, knew better than to bring it up at all.

It was as Jaskier finished lacing up the front of his doublet – more sober than the one from last night, jet black, the Nilfgaardian sun discreetly embedded on the breast would have passed entirely unnoticed to any who knew not that it was there, a true piece of craftsmanship – and brushed his hand over the embellishment that the viscount came up behind him, put his hand over his own as he leaned into him.

“Julian,” He could feel him, the press of a neatly-groomed beard on the back of his neck, thought it might have been a pleasant itch upon his skin, “I have a favour I’d like you to do for me.” He said, voice low and conspiratorial, which he usually only used when his requests were not to be denied.

After a pause, in which Jaskier gulped audibly, he corrected himself, “No, not ask, that you are _going_ to do for me.”

Vattier’s voice grew sharp, a rumble of thunder in the distance, there was no running away this time.

“And what might that be?” The waves shook in anticipation, his voice was hoarse and unsteady as he asked the question, knew, already, that the answer would not be pleasant. Jaskier thought he had done well, last night, and then after, when it had been just the two of them, he’d thought he’d satisfied the viscount, that he’d made him happy… Surely he’d not so completely lost touch with his own emotions to be unable to decipher his displeasure?

“I had not expected a Witcher to be here, last night, much less _yours._ It was quite a surprise, to be sure: of all the beast-hunters there are out there, that it turned out to be _Geralt or Rivia,_ quite the twist of fate, I have to say.” He mused, voice light, like he was recalling nothing more than a chance encounter. Jaskier knew better, had grown to understand the lilt and tone of his speech like he did the partitions of his songs, did not think he very much liked where this conversation was going.

He’d not seen Geralt in nigh a year, not since he’d wished him out of his life on the side of that mountain in a fit of uncontrolled anger. It had hurt, at the time, a scar left open and bleeding and for months after, Jaskier had been too hurt to bother tending to it, the ache of Geralt’s blessing burning him from the inside. He thought he remembered growing angry and upset, resentful even for a time, towards the Witcher, who so carelessly had faulted him for a sin not his own, and decided to throw away years of friendship to cope with his turmoil. He’d told himself he would have been downright furious with him, were their paths ever to meet again, would have taken immense joy in making him grovel for absolution and work hard to earn his forgiveness. Only when he’d realized how cruel he sounded did Jaskier let go of the bitterness, knew he wished not to turn into _that_ kind of monster, and then… Well the bard was not entirely sure what he would say to him now, when nothingness was all he felt.

Maybe the nothingness he now had was better, in a way, was easier to deal with. Perhaps he could no longer appreciate the little things in life the way he once had, but it made heartbreak and acerbity no longer emotions for him to hold – surely, Jaskier mused, he must have been a better person for it?

Still, if he thought back to last night, remembered the very faint relief that had been seeing Geralt again, that he’d been able to witness for himself that he’d not changed all that much, that he seemed… _Good,_ for lack of a better word (and _oh,_ was it not embarrassing for a poet to have such a mediocre grasp upon the treasure that was his own language?), Jaskier could almost have thought himself back to when they used to travel together – like _before._

He did not wish to hurt Geralt – did not wish for _anything,_ anymore, for his heart no longer held _desire -_ did not think he wanted him getting involved in whatever it was Vattier wanted with him. The Witcher had no fights to pick with Nilfgaard, his kind famously abstained from politics and the machinations of the noble families of the Continent, and Jaskier was of a mind that he would rather not give up anything pertaining to Geralt’s privacy if he could, at least not anything he would not say inadvertently.

“Please leave him be, Vattier. Geralt has no quarrel with us.” He sighed, a weariness to his voice, wished, perhaps, that it held the assurance it once had for his point to land it’s mark.

“He is still _Geralt_ to you, is he? Even after the Witcher hurt you so?”

Jaskier dared not answer, knew not what words were expected of him. He’d told him, of course, what Geralt had said on the Mountain, and the heartbreak that had followed, had told Vattier a lot of things when the man demanded – no, Jaskier hastily amended, _asked –_ he tell him, about his travels with his Witcher companion, what they did, where they went, what they said, how it _felt._ Vattier had been curious, at the start, had not taken kindly to his initial reticence.

Jaskier learnt, then, to let go of depthless things such as _‘no’,_ he no longer had use for such a word in Eiddon, it was not one for him to seek out when the viscount provided him with shelter, food, care and, when he was feeling particularly generous, passionate sentiments through their souls.

“And oh, but he _does_ have quarrel with us, little flower,” A weed caught in a sudden blast, Jaskier found himself spun around, turned back to look him in the eye, their faces so close their lips nearly brushed, when the viscount brought a hand under his chin, raised his head slightly, “You _know_ he does, don’t you? Emperor Emhyr is still on the lookout for the Cintran princess, for the Witcher’s child surprise, and we’re going to get it for him.”

Jaskier did not think it prudent to comment on his choice of words, kept his mouth shut, even if talking of the child like she was a mere prize to be won, like she was not even human, made his skin crawl.

“And I need _you.”_ He was saying, the hand at his chin running down the length of his neck, seared his skin before reaching his side, rested upon his hip for a moment, before it came back up to settle upon his chest, right over his beating heart. Jaskier had a moment to notice that it had turned a biting cold again, that it beheld none of the intimacy of last night. “I need you – _want_ you – to talk to the Witcher. _You_ are going to ask him about the princess, little Cirilla, and you are going to get where he’s hiding her.”

Jaskier’s heart skipped a beat at the command, like a gust of harsh wind upon the waves, demanding their submission, and upon the coast bloomed little sprouts of disquietude and anxiety, ugly weeds taking root deep in the ground and littering the seabed, marring what should have been beautiful with the crude and grotesque touch of what remained of his emotions. He almost longed for the nothingness from a moment ago, emptiness would have been better than this.

 _This…_ This was too much, he knew not anymore how to control his anxiety the few times it decided to manifest, to remind him that he was still human, and maybe, somewhere, Jaskier wished he could still muster _anger_ and _hatred,_ could still remember how _upset_ felt in his blood, for it seemed to him like far more appropriate a response, anything was better than the dull pain of apprehension.

 _“Careful,_ Julian. Be careful about what’s going on in there,” Vattier warned lightly, increased the pressure on his chest just enough to make him bite his lip at the discomfort. And _of course,_ how stupid was he? They shared a soul, of course the viscount wished not to hear such thoughts, of course he wished not to feel such things, and so Jaskier tried, he really did, to clamp down on what he felt, snuff it out like he had wonder and excitement, for Vattier did not want him to feel such things, the poet was not _supposed_ to feel such things.“Remember, I know what you feel, I feel it too, always. I would ask you not to upset me.”

Of course Jaskier wished not to upset him, to be the cause of the acrid feel of bitterness tainting his heart and his feelings when the man gifted them to him so generously, of course he wished not to see him unhappy and for the storm to stain the sea and tear apart the couple of flowers that may still be scattered along the coastline, but even when weighed against the freedom of Geralt’s child surprise - the poor little girl who’d never asked to be part of any of this, who deserved not to be tainted by other’s machinations and ambitions towards her - it felt… _Wrong,_ giving in so easily. Geralt would be furious were he to ever catch wind of it, would wish him out of his life yet again, and this time, Jaskier doubted very much there would be anything he could do to ask for his forgiveness.

“I…” He swallowed, “Vattier, _please,_ I can’t do that to him, you _know-“_

The wind howled, loud and frightful, tossed the waves around and split them right down the middle, and Jaskier could do little else but bring a hand to his chest, in the vain hopes of perhaps easing the pain he now felt there as he felt, suddenly, short of breath.

“You can’t do something as small that? After _everything_ I’ve done for you, is the name of _one_ place too much to ask of you, Julian?”

Lightning flashed, too loud in his ears, and burned his skin as it touched him. In the distance, a roar upon the current as it agonizingly tore right through it, ripped it open and pried it apart, picking what it willed, leaving the damaged waves to fix themselves up. Jaskier needed it all to _stop,_ or he’d never set a foot outside of this room at all. _Comply, comply, comply, it is far easier that way._ So he did.

“Of course not. I can, it’s just- ”

“It’s just _what?”_ A hiss in his ear, far too suffocating as the warning seeped into his skin. Jaskier wasn’t prepared for it, never was, for how could one ever predict when the storm would unleash? How could one ever foretell where it would strike?

The waves still trembled in fear, the threat of another crack of lightning hovering over them.

“What excuse could you possibly have to say _no?”_

“I can’t. I _won’t!_ She’s a _child,_ she hasn’t done anything!” He tried to reason, momentarily forgot that he was not supposed to raise his voice, that upset was no longer an emotion it was his right to wield. But, with what little will of his own he still had beating in his heart – and perhaps it _was_ naught but dying embers, but those embers were _his -_ Jaskier was sure he did _not_ want to do this. He still understood not why the existence of this _one_ young girl seemed to upset Nilfgaard so, did not think he wished to get involved in the great lengths they were going to to find her.

In the distance, thunder rumbled, made him quake in fear, and before he could think properly, there was a hand around his neck, the viscount’s thumb digging into his collar bone, and, really, Jaskier could only have been disappointed in himself at having forgotten how volatile Vattier could sometimes be. He’d learnt, of course, that it was oft times safer to keep his mouth shut, that his poetic musings and his singing were not to be heard unless asked for, had learnt that it was better to speak when spoken to – he’d been right too, Jaskier talked too much to say nothing of value, his rambling mouth had gotten him into far too much trouble in his life, had been a terrible trait of his everyone from his mother to Geralt to all of his previous lovers had lamented about – why the fuck had he not been able to be obedient just this one time too?

 _“Yet,_ Julian, she has not done anything _yet._ Semantics matter, you of all people should know that.”

The pressure increased, he couldn’t breathe and were he perhaps not in such distress, Jaskier might have taken a moment to ponder on what embarrassment might feel like tainting his cheeks, when he felt his eyes water.

At least he could still muster tears, it would seem, it was almost a relief to see he’d not given them up.

“If she’s anything like her grandmother, like Calanthe, she will become something to be reckoned with, if our Emperor does not mould her to his image first. It would mean war, thousands condemned to die in a dispute they would never understand, surely you would seek to stop such a tragedy from taking place, would you not?”

More pressure, and Jaskier could manage little more than a faint nod.

“I am not a spymaster for nothing, Julian. Our Emperor wants that information, he wants the girl. The Witcher is rumoured to have her, and we’re going to use this expedition as a means to get her from him. I want this.”

His hand softened, somewhat, as he said so, his tone more gentle. Jaskier felt the words trickling into his skin, a will that was not his own settling into his blood. Struggling to breathe, still, he could not stop it, as he felt the viscount’s want begin to taint his desires, and were he a stronger man, surely Jaskier would have fought them off. Instead, he merely nodded, tried not to think about the mounting anxiety in his heart at the blossoming want in his chest to find the princess _– it’s not mine, it’s not mine!_ He told himself –

“Surely, so do you?”

 _No, I don’t think I want this!_ He thought, but _‘no’_ was no longer a word towards which Jaskier felt any particular fondness, knew it tended to stir up discontent and upset, turned his heart and soul sour when he felt it through the bond they shared. It was not his place, to say such a thing, not when Vattier provided for him, cared for him, did everything for him. It would have been so terribly ungrateful of him to do this to the man.

It was all right, though, he thought.

“I think I do.” Was what he said, and the pressure stopped, lifted, and he could breathe. The _want_ was new, felt unfamiliar as it crawled its way into his chest, nestled itself into his heart and began to burn, a question for Geralt already on the tip of his lips. It was faint, for Jaskier wanted not for much anymore, but it was there, beckoned him to seek the Witcher out, ask him how he’d been in their time apart, share a genuine conversation, ask him about his child surprise, where she was, what she was capable of.

Maybe, once, he’d have been horrified at the thought of such a betrayal, such an infringement upon Geralt’s privacy.

The crumbs of Vattier’s urgent wants sinking their sharp claws into him felt warm, and Jaskier embraced the feeling, for it was not often he had the privilege to indulge in such things anymore. If he wanted this, then surely it was not wrong for him to want it too.

“Good,” The viscount said, lightly tapped his cheek, praising satisfaction bleeding from his touch as skin met skin, it felt warm, and Jaskier let himself have it, thought it not too brazen of him to lap up what it was the viscount was freely giving him. “Then it is settled, you will use your time wisely, _talk to the Witcher,_ get him to open up about Princess Cirilla. I’m giving you until we get our hands on the unicorn, I want a location by then, Julian.”

There was a hint of urgency in his tone, as his order of talk to Geralt made its way to his heart, his eagerness for the Cintran girl in touching distance, begging to cling to his skin. Jaskier could almost fool himself into believing that he genuinely wanted this too.

“Of course,” Jaskier said, obediently, let the viscount seal his command with a kiss, let him do as he pleased for such had become the nature of their relationship. Such concerns mattered not, when the poet felt what must have been love bleeding out of his fingers, a gentle breeze healing his damaged skin where they touched without him asking. Such loving attentiveness was pleasant, he thought.

“Don’t overthink things, Little Flower, it is but one small favour I am asking of you. Just do as I say, and everything will be fine.” Vattier whispered in his ear as he pulled back, his hand gently tapping his cheek, fingers lingering upon his skin for a moment before they left, the ghost of his touch tingling. Jaskier thought it might have felt nice. “Trust that I know what is best for us, remember?”

The bard hoped it was sincerity he could read in his eyes.

And really, he thought after a moment, maybe Vattier was right. He’d kept him alive in Eiddon, initiated him to the intricacies of his court and Nilfgaardian etiquette, opened him to Southern customs and culture as he’d beckoned him to leave behind the savage ways of the North, offered him a lifeline where Jaskier would have certainly been eaten alive otherwise. He’d kept him safe from nobles’ prying questions and selfish ambitions, told him that he’d have naught but wilted and died were he to have been handled by them, and as a price for his protection, had in exchange demanded only his company in body and mind, sought his emotions when he needed them to lean on and still had the grace of not depleting him completely. Surely… _Surely_ he knew best?

“I’ll try.” It was only proper after all, to pay him back what he wanted – what they _both_ wanted. To seal the deal, Jaskier leaned in of his own accord, lips parted and heart fluttering, a fragile little butterfly starved of affection, ready to lap up even the tiniest of grains if it meant he’d managed to please the viscount.

“You’ll do more than _just try._ You get the name of that place, and everything will be all right, Julian. And do _not_ raise your voice to me again, it would be ill advised.”

The kiss was quick, chaste, and for a moment, Jaskier thought that was all the man wanted from him, Vattier’s expressions of intimacy towards him usually reserved for a quiet sanctuary they indulged in, in the candle-lit privacy of their room where the only company they had to fear was that of their own shadows.

This morning was different, however.

“Before you go, Julian-”

There was nothing innocent in the touch on his shoulder, nor were the intention of the other hand on his hips or the lips at his neck difficult to decipher, and so Jaskier let himself be pushed back into the bed just a little longer, let himself have a faint enjoyment at the touch of the soft sheets at his back and the rustling of the covers in his hands when he squeezed, let himself get lost in the intricate woodcarvings in the ceiling and thoughts of how long the poor carpenter must have spent on his back crafting such a fine design. It looked like it had taken time, and a lot of care, a work of the heart, he mused, as he felt hands running along smooth wood, grasping where it willed the mass to bend to their will, pleasure oozing from them as they finished their work, a delicate touch taking in their creation when they brushed polished surface.

Sometimes, maybe he wished that a similarly refined art could still bleed from his fingertips. Even with Vattier’s loving touch branding his skin as he let him do as he pleased, Jaskier still felt something strangely akin to bitterness taint his heart, the little crumbs of burning affection from the viscount’s touch seemed not to be enough to fill the hollow emptiness in his chest.

It wasn’t so bad, really, Jaskier mused. He’d had far worse with fleeting lovers he’d shared both his body and his heart with in the past.

And if the viscount’s touch clung far longer to his skin than usual – cloying and strangely suffocating, as he hastily dressed, once he’d gathered his wits and was to obediently see to the instructions given to him – well nobody needed to know but him.

* * *

One thing Jaskier did love about Vattier was that his instructions, when he gave them to him, were usually clear and easy to follow, and left little room for silly poetic interpretations and endless debating on semantics on his part: _don’t say anything, don’t overthink, be quick, do as I ask._

So it stood to reason that when he beckoned him to pack what little personal belongings they’d decided to bring along, carry them down to the stables and ready both their horses, that Jaskier, obedience worn around his neck like a golden collar, merely did as he was told and asked no questions.

He set his body into motion, the viscount’s order guiding him through gestures he knew by heart – so what if Jaksier happened to be a little stiff? – as he hobbled into the adjacent washroom. The water upon his face felt, dare he say it, _nice._ It was cold, bit his skin till it numbed, and for a moment, he wondered if life might be better, if he could just forget how to feel entirely.

Then he thought better of his ridiculous philosophizing, for what use had such a question, in the grand scheme of things? People generally _liked_ to feel, Jaskier could still remember what lines of laughter and joy looked like, upon the many patrons of inns and taverns he and Geralt used to halt in, a contract, a good song and a night of merriment for payment. Those people had talked loudly, men would clamour high and loud of their virility around a tankard of ale where women would talk of their nimble hands baking bread and sewing clothes and caring for young souls, and each held such love and appetite for life in their voices as they chanted their gratitude at being granted an existence where they were privileged to feel such things.

Jaskier was just… _Different_ , he supposed. He no longer felt much for he’d quite forgotten how, and if he could but rid himself of his silly thoughts too, lest he upset Vattier any more, well he could only count himself lucky. He had no desire to feel the crack of thunder in his breast anytime soon.

 _Obey him and everything will be fine, like it has been so far,_ he told himself with more insistence, as he cupped another splash of water across his face, watched with rapt attention as what remained in his hands dripped back into the basin and slid down the sides of the embellished blue-and-white porcelain bowl.

The washcloth, when he reached for it, felt _good_ under his hand – rough, used, torn in one corner, it had clearly been loved – and if he tried to concentrate on how it felt around his neck when he brought it there, the wet slap as it hit skin and the grating it did as he moved it and washed away the vestiges of what had transpired last night, he tried not to think too hard on why that might have been.

Jaskier told himself that he didn’t mind, would have said _no_ and voiced his displeasure, surely, if he’d, at any point, had any reticence to their love-making. He’d been with his fair share of men and women across the Continent in the past – granted, had never shared his soul and the most intimate of his emotions and thoughts with them like he did with Vattier, but surely, it could not be _too_ different? – his many experiences having made it easier to decide what he liked and did not like. While the viscount’s hands were certainly assured, he was not cruel, had never had a particular appetite for violence at any point in their relationship, the only times his touch had grown a tad harsher, Jaskier had brought it on himself, really. He knew he was not the easiest of lovers to be with.

Besides, it was not as if either one of them flaunted their intimacy to courtiers or servants. Discreetness was in Vattier’s nature, what with being a trusted councilman to the Emperor, he let the people know only what they needed to know and had invited him to follow in his footsteps. Jaskier thought it only fair to respect his wishes, as he carefully laced up the high collar of his doublet, hoped the dark greys and blacks would be enough to conceal any love bites he may have been marked with. Vattier did not want them gaining any unwanted attention.

_Julian. I said ‘be quick’._

Instinctively, his fingers fumbled around the last of the strings as his chest seized, the viscount’s anticipation and haste handling his body quite without Jaskier’s say in the matter as he gathered up their belongings. There was not much, truth be told – Vattier held a particular affection for his luxuries, his books and his art, an affection Jaskier entirely understood. Music and song had become quite the rarity, but he supposed it was only so so that he’d fully appreciate the sparse times he was permitted to indulge in it - he'd thought it would be naught but cumbersome to bring it all along with them, had instead preferred to pack rich parchment, a ruby indented knife and a vial or two he would keep for personal use. Jaskier handled them with care, for to have been chosen, the items must have held a particular significance to him – and if they meant a lot to Vattier, then so too, should they mean a lot to Jaskier.

Jaskier, for his part, had little. Aside from a lute whose cords were seldom strummed anymore and a songbook with little written in it, there no longer was much to his name. But that was all right, he thought, for Vattier shared with him his heart and his feelings, and such preciously intimate things were more than enough for him to carry. He’d almost considered leaving the book behind – and why, exactly, he’d brought it along, he still knew not, it was not like he composed much of anything anymore – but there it sat, at the bottom of his pack. The old ochre and uneven pages threatened to fall loose of their binding any day now, the dog-eared corner of the cover bespeaking of another life in which he’d spent many a night on the road alongside Geralt. Upon the paper, he knew were scribbled lines and metaphors and verses – flowery language, superlative nonsense and tedious embellishment that, all things considered, meant very little.

But they were memories, ones Jaskier found himself particularly loathe to part with. And as long as Vattier opposed not the little songbook, he supposed he would rather have it with him, tucked into the forgotten pocket of his pack than left here in Visima, for a curious servant to find. Jaskier thought he would rather not have someone else peer into such personal writings.

So he pocketed the book, soon joined everything else they owned to it, and hoisted their belongings upon his shoulders before setting out for the stables. Behind him, the door closed with an audible click.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter got insanely long, so I elected to chop it down a little, make it more digest.
> 
> Thank you for your kind comments and kudos, and welcome to any new readers :)


	7. VII

A cacophony of noise greeted him as he set foot in the courtyard, as men of all statures and origins set about seeing to the departure of Lord Kimbolt and his esteemed company. The grounds were abuzz with life, and maybe once, Jaskier would have taken part in such feverish anticipation also, would not have hesitated to adorn some ridiculously bright outfit, completed with a feathered hat, and set himself down right at the centre, clamouring songs aplenty to get the spirits going. He supposed working a royal courtyard could not be much more difficult than rousing the patrons of an inn or a tavern – find them good lyrics and a catchy rhythm, and that was all that would be needed.

Nowadays, he’d grown used to making himself more discreet, and people no longer looked to him for poetic lyrics and music, his lips did not sing much – not unless Vattier asked it of him, in which case, of course Jaskier would readily comply and strum his chords as he pleased. His concerts tended to be more of the private sort, however, and usually ended in much different strings being played and a far more intimate melody coming from his mouth. If, somewhere, he remembered being somewhat reluctant to share his songs much with him some time ago, he supposed such banal grievances were for his heart to nurse alone.

His newfound discretion served him well, Jaskier avoiding any early company on his way to the stables, the two young grooms dressed in the Temerian colours thankfully not demanding anything more of him than a polite greeting, and readily accepted to look over their affairs when he would later have to take his leave.

Contra, Vattier’s horse, gave him the cold shoulder, when he eventually got to his stall. It was not anything out of the ordinary, the tall bay stallion could hold quite the temperament towards those he liked not, and Jaskier still remembered the poor novice who’d received a kick in the stomach for his troubles when the horse had deemed his movements too brusque. Thankfully, he seemed more obliging this morning, and after a slight spat over his bit, Jaskier carefully strapped the embellished girth around his belly and reset the few ornaments running down the long of his cheekpieces, gave him a slight pat on the nose as thanks for his good behaviour. He would have braided his mane, too, thought it would have made the steed look mighty handsome, did not do so, for he knew the viscount thought it silly, and Jaskier wished not to embarrass him so early on their journey.

Pegasus, thankfully, gave him a much warmer welcome when he got to her. She’d been a gift, from Vattier, who thought it only proper for his mate to accompany him on hunts and the likes, and she was positively lovely. She always greeted him with a gentle nuzzle to his neck, and oft times would knock her bridle over, just to get a rise out of him. Jaskier didn’t mind, her antics brought a little light-heartedness back into his life and he only really scolded her half-heartedly, unable to resist the apologetic look she’d give him after, and would promptly scratch behind her ears, where he knew she liked it. Pegasus was warm, never opposed to a walk in the castle grounds, the pair of them oft stopping by one of the little bubbling streams that flowed not too far off, where Jaksier knew he was allowed to go. They would take their time, perhaps because the trees littering the domain were nice to look at and the smell of little flowers on the many catalpa trees were downright divine, perhaps because Pegasus was not the fastest of horses, and Jaskier had had to bribe her more than once with the promise of a sugar cube or peppermint to get her to do as he asked, but, much like Roach, she had a kind heart once one peeled back her many layers, and she’d been a nice escape from the at-times claustrophobic four walls of a castle.

Distantly, Jaskier knew he had no right to complain about his living accommodations, for many less fortunate than he would no doubt have dreamt of having the life he now lead, but it was just that… It could tend to get a little overwhelming at times, this constant presence in his heart. While he never went far, and knew Vattier always kept an eye out for him through their bond, could call him back if Jaskier ever adventured himself outside of the viscount’s territory, it was an enjoyable time he almost had to himself.

“Sorry,” He said, apologetic, when Pegasus forewent the little scratch behind her ears, preferring instead to sniff at his pockets, hunting of course for a wayward treat. It was true that he’d cultivated the bad habit of indulging her, in that regard. Still, a little bubble of warmth bloomed in his chest as she stubbornly bumped him around, looked to his other side to see if he’d perhaps not had something there, and it made him smile, stretched his cheeks in a way that felt wrong, an unfamiliar grimace upon his face.

Was something as trivial as this _really_ a thing he ought to be smiling about?

“I’m afraid I’ve got nothing for you this morning, dear.” He continued, gave a pat to her neck to make it up to her and remembered how, long ago, he used to positively mock Geralt for talking like this to Roach and telling her all of his deepest and most heartfelt secrets. In retrospect, he’d been such a callous friend, hadn’t he? In their time apart Jaskier had gained a new understanding for the Witcher’s affinity for his four-legged friend, for as silly as it might have sounded, his dapple grey mare had been quite the source of comfort, when times arose where Jaskier did not particularly wish to share anything with courtiers and servants. He knew she understood not what he said to her, not really, not in depth, but the thought of her being there, the patient companionship and the little gestures she’d do, it had been nice.

He hadn’t needed to say anything to Vattier, of course, the viscount knew everything without him having to utter a single word.

For what Jaskier lacked in succulent offerings, however, he made up for in a good pat, brushed down the dust and grime until her fur felt soft and silky beneath his fingers, a shiny palette of greys and whites that would cause much envy among the finest of artists. The dapples in her sides were soothing to trace with his hand: they all were of various sizes, shades of colours and shapes, the many differences bringing something unique to her coat, and, right then, nothing else mattered to Jaskier but taking a moment to breathe as he looked at them, to just… _Be,_ as one hand absently ran through her mane.

One of the perks of Pegasus being his own horse meant that Jaskier was free to do with her as he pleased, and when she opposed not as he parted her hair, he supposed catching it up in a running braid would keep it safe from getting entangled in twigs and branches later on. It was silly, perhaps, wasting his time on such nonsense, but he thought that it would make Pegasus look pretty. Maybe, distantly, he thought he might have liked it, too.

It was much like this that Geralt found him.

The Witcher, for his part, had not exactly slept very well – had not for a couple of days, as a matter of fact, even if the storm had died down somewhat when he’d closed his eyes last night, a damp drizzle turning the coast a morose grey and numbing his body instead – and while the quaint chamber Lord Kimbolt had graciously offered him on such short notice had certainly been far more luxurious than what Geralt could usually afford, he had not been able to enjoy it, the ostentatious décor and fineries turning out to be a lot less comfortable than the homely feel of the humble inns he tended to halt in for a night. A brutish monster-hunter, he felt ill-at-ease enclosed in the walls of a castle and all of its refineries, his touch felt too harsh, upon such expensive and delicate belongings.

So Geralt had spent as little time inside as possible, left his chambers as tidy as he could – no need to overwork the poor maids and servants any more than they already were with all of this celebratory nonsense – and had subsequently hastily substituted himself to any painful small talk and pedantic interactions by heading to the stables. He supposed he might as well tend to Roach a little before they set off, thought it far more preferable than having to entertain someone’s want of a meaningless conversation with him. Last night with Viscount Rideaux had been more than enough, thank you very much.

It was early enough still, when he set foot into the courtyard, and it would have been a lie to say he was not surprised at how many men and women were already up and seeing to their chores when the sun had but barely fully risen in the morning sky. The few humans he happened to know rather enjoyed the luxury of a warm bed, were oft times reluctant, generally, to part with it.

It was also quite unexpected for Jaskier, of all people, to be there too, when he set his meagre belongings in front of Roach’s stall, and much like last night, Geralt had had to double check to make sure he was not imagining things. The bard had _not_ been an early riser, that much the Witcher remembered quite well, for oft had he reminisced on the many ways he’d went about rousing him from sleep during the last year, some had even made quite the entertaining tale for Ciri and his brothers, once they’d reached Kaer Mohren, had brought a little levity to the grave reason why such a young soul was there.

Yet here he was, hurriedly setting about saddling a bay horse with a tooled-leather saddle that Geralt thought somewhat ill-fitting for their venture – probably the viscount’s horse, then – and then took a little more time as he tended to a second one, no doubt his own, if the animal’s affection towards him was anything to go by. He tried to look over the ill-suited black doublet with a golden sun, tried not to notice the way Jaskier hobbled about, his shoulders notably hunched over, as if something he could not see weighed heavily upon him, he knew the man was not averse to a tumble in the sheets – tried _very_ hard not to think of both him and the viscount sharing a bed and what exactly _that_ entailed – tried to merely chalk it up to Jaskier having changed in their year apart, much like he’d told him last night. Of course he had, it would have been foolish of Geralt to expect to find him exactly like he’d left him, the Witcher merely had to stop wishing for a memory that had long ago ceased to exist to come back, he would only be setting himself up for bitter disappointment.

If he managed not quite to supress the faint envy at the sight of him so openly talking to his horse when he could not bring himself to spare Geralt more than a few words at last night’s banquet, well there was nobody around to know about it.

He knew it was selfish, that the only person who ought to have been deciding whether Jaskier talked to him or not was the man in question, but he could not help it.

Geralt was not a man of many words, yet he thought then, that he might have wanted to say something, loathe to let the few private moments he and the bard seemed to be given alone go to waste. The very least he could do was greet him by name, give him the decency of that much if nothing else.

“Jaskier,” He said, tried not to appreciate how it felt, as it rolled off his tongue, for it was not a Witcher’s place to feel such things.

“Ah, Geralt!” He jumped, as if unused to the sound of his own name, and maybe it stung more than it ought to have when Jaskier took one step back from him, still well intent to keep the distance he’d put between them at dinner, “I did not hear you coming, I’m sorry.”

Geralt would have told him that there was no need for apologies, for he’d done no wrong, and while the thought came easily to him, while he no doubt would have said as much in another life, as he watched Jaskier nervously run his fingers along the horse’s spine and noted, not without a pang, that he looked not his way but seemed more interested in the ground between them, the easy camaraderie they might have once shared seemed to be no more. It felt odd, to be so close, and yet have such a chasm stand between them.

“Is it all right, if I’m here?”

Jaskier stopped for a moment as the Witcher’s question sunk in, hand going still over Pegasus’ flank, for this was not something that was usually asked to him anymore. If people desired his company, they rarely gave much thought to his input beforehand and he merely offered himself to them (who _inquired_ before spending time with someone anyway?), for he did not mind, not really, he’d grown used to the constant of another presence in his heart by now. It was… _Strange,_ to say the least, knowing he could end this right here and now, if he so desired. Jaskier thought that, were he to tell Geralt off, that he would obey without asking questions, too.

Such power did not sit right with him, twisted the knots of a faint sentiment that might have been discomfort somewhere deep inside of him, and he thought it did not feel pleasant. And, after a moment of consideration, Jaskier was of a mind that he might like his company anyway.

“Yes, you can stay, if you’d like.”

“I can always go, if you’d rather me not be here.”

“No, I…” It was hard, trying to find what it was he felt in a sea of nothingness, trying to understand why he would rather Geralt be here than be alone with Pegasus for only comradeship – far be it for Jaskier to think of her poorly, but when compared to his once companion, he thought he might like to indulge in a little conversation with him if he could. A whole year without Geralt had been a long time, after all. “I think I might be happy, if you stayed.”

Or _content,_ at the very least, if happiness was too strong of an emotion for him to handle anymore.

“Good,” Geralt said, nodding, “That’s… Good.”

He did not come any closer, and Jaskier thought he might have been grateful, thought he’d had quite enough touching for today.

The silence that followed was slightly awkward, and perhaps once, Jaskier would have had no qualms filling it with empty chatter and superficial philosophizing, but he’d grown used to keeping his head down and his mouth shut, knew now how tedious his talk could be, and so opted to say nothing instead. The weight of Vattier’s wish for Geralt’s child surprise still felt heavy, upon his chest, made it hard to breathe, and more than once, as he adjusted the black saddle pad on Pegasus’ back did a question concerning one little Cirilla of Cintra nearly pass his lips and taint their first real conversation.

_Cirilla._

_Cirilla._

_Cirilla._

The name echoed in his head, a faceless girl with ashen blonde hair and a dazzling smile, who held so much love for the world in her heart and deserved not to have him pry about her was all Jaskier could think of. He knew it was wrong, made his stomach roll when he tried to twist his lips to utter a question about her, only the frenetic thought of _I don’t want to!_ repeated over and over in his mind as Jaskier begged his body not to betray him stopping him from inadvertently saying something he would no doubt come to regret.

The desire for the information was still _there,_ burned ardently in his heart, was not easy to quell with the faint will of his own, but Jaskier managed to keep it at bay, for now. It hurt, an anger not his own threatening to set him ablaze from the inside, but he did not _want_ this, did not think he wished to know _anything_ at all about the princess, for he knew he’d not be able to keep whatever crumbs Geralt deigned to give him it to himself. How long his good fortune would hold out, he knew not.

Knowing his luck, he’d probably give out, eventually.

“She yours?”

Geralt’s question came as a relief, as he spied him looking up and down, no doubt appraising Pegasus with an experienced eye, for the Witcher knew a sturdy horse when he saw one, such knowledge was invaluable when travelling across the Continent.

“Yes. Her name is Pegasus, she was a gift.” It was fleeting but there, Jaskier gave his horse the hint of a fond smile, indulged her when she snuck her nose under his arm, seeking another affectionate scratch. The mundane gesture was oddly soft, and if Geralt’s thoughts strayed to having missed such a thing in the time after he’d sent Jaskier away, he did not think it his right to voice it – he had, after all, nobody to blame but himself and the anger he’d not managed to keep properly under control, the anger he’d allowed to so badly taint words he’d not truly meant with his heart, for his lack of companionship.

From _who_ the gift was needed not be said, they both knew. Geralt thought it to be decidedly less pleasant.

“She looks healthy,” He commented instead, noted how the horse’s ears perked up a little at the compliment and thought that, if nothing else, this journey might give Roach a decent traveling companion, and maybe that would be worth it. He shouldn’t have been surprised, really, while Roach had taken some time warming up to him, the Witcher still remembered with a hint of fondness how Jaskier would indulge her with gentle pats and stolen apples he’d feigned eating himself, and how he’d maybe been a little jealous of her affection for the bard too – or whatever the watered-down version of envy was, for he felt not such things fully since the Trials. Geralt would perhaps not have gone so far as to braid her mane with fancy ribbons and colourful flowers, but he supposed it ought to have come as little surprise, Jaskier’s flair for dramatics seemed to have still been alive and kicking.

It should not have been an as welcomed observation as it was.

“Well, yes,” He was saying, as he adjusted the length of her reigns, “If there is one thing I learned from our travels together, it’s that she deserves a little pampering. We have, after all, a long journey ahead of us, I believe, Vattier probably won’t want me wasting my time on this later.” He remarked, casually, giving Geralt a glimpse into a familiar routine he had no part in, relinquished to naught but a silent observer from the outside.

_Speaking of the viscount, however…_

Geralt was grateful he’d not had to try and bring him up himself, for he had had no idea how to broach the subject with a modicum of tact, such linguistic skills were not his prerogative to hold, unfortunately. It had weighed rather heavily upon his mind after the feast, however, when he’d had time to mull over their parody of a conversation in the relative silence of his allotted room, for he could still not make sense of it: the noble had given him his reasons, but he had yet to ask Jaskier what he was _doing_ with him, and he would have rather heard the rationality behind such an incomprehensible union from his friend than a man he barely knew.

“What is your deal with him anyway? I know he said some things to me last night, but I would have liked to hear the full story from you. Mind filling me in?” He said, and after a moment of reflection, added, “If you want to, of course.”

“Ah, yes,” Jaskier said, smiling faintly, “He did happen to mention that, didn’t he? We’re…” He paused, no doubt looking for the right words, as he turned for his saddle, adjusted the girth slightly around the horse’s belly with a far more ease than Geralt remembered from him, no doubt one of the many nice things he’d acquired in their year apart.

He supposed it was another shortcoming that came with being a Witcher, that even in little matters such as these, humans still bested him, Geralt would never hope to live up to them.

In his chest, Jaskier felt something bristle and part the little scattered crumbs of himself he still held on to, he did not need to have the man speak to him in his mind to know that Vattier was listening, intently too, if his large presence was anything to go by. He could sense the clouds gathering, heavy and foreboding, as they awaited with baited breath his next words, the threat of a clap of thunder ever present were it to displease him. Which was quite unnecessary, Jaskier thought, for why would he lie? Why would he seek to incense the viscount when it would bring him naught but discomfort too?

Perhaps the man’s lack of trust in him stung, just a little.

“It’s like he told you last night, really, we’re soulmates.”

Jaskier had thought, once, that he would have been positively elated, to say aloud those words for the first time. To speak them into existence after years of penning down the most fantastical of ballads, to at long last breathe a life of his own into them and share them with a close friend who would undoubtedly understand how much it would mean to him, he’d been sure it would have been positively lovely.

Instead, he felt nothing, as his lips uttered words he knew it was not his place _not_ to say.

Why he looked not Geralt’s way, he was not sure, perhaps the feel of Pegasus’ strong heartbeat beneath his palm, as he knelt to buckle the girth of her saddle around her, felt a tad more comforting to him then.

Once upon a time, he might have strongly considered the thought of running away, of hastily commanding her into a gallop and leave it all behind without a care in the world as to where they were headed or what the future would hold in store for them. Perhaps he could have become a hermit, then, return to civilization once in a blue moon just to publish the odd collection of rhyming musings he happened to come up with, a life alone with only a horse for company could not be so bad, surely. If Geralt managed it with relative ease, then surely, so could he.

But such thoughts were indeed ridiculous, Jaskier chastised himself, for he was content here, he was sure of it.

The Witcher, for his part, merely nodded, Geralt tilting his head somewhat as Jaskier knelt to catch the buckle of his girth. It was not the most ideal of ways to share a conversation, but he would take this above last night’s silence and Jaksier’s stilted frame with little qualms. What was he to say, however? He knew the art of language was not a craft he was well-versed in (was a skill he remembered Jaskier excelling in far better than he, for that matter, even if he now did seem to have grown more reserved and more thoughtful, as he picked his words), and maybe once, when they’d been friends, when things between them could go unsaid for they trusted each other enough to be able to speak in silence, Geralt might have understood, what hung in the quiet moment after his sentence died out.

It came as quite a painful realisation, when Geralt had to accept that one year apart had seen many of the once-solid threads of their long-standing friendship crumble to dust, like they’d never even existed in the first place, for what had once been self-evident now seemed muddled and difficult to discern, their relationship now nothing more than a blank slate with a couple of memories, none of them enough to warrant any closeness.

Was it even still his place to call it friendship, however, if it had so easily come undone at the seams? He knew it was selfish of him, to still think of Jaskier as his friend, especially after he’d had time to reflect and regret the words he’d so hastily spat his way, heedless of the pain they would undoubtedly cause him, and why he found himself unable to passively wave off such want it was not his place to have, Geralt knew not.

If Vesemir could see him now, witness how his once firm resolve seemed to be cracking just beneath the surface, the faint rays of once buried emotions beginning to seep through like ugly weeds without him being able to stop it, his old mentor would have no doubt given Geralt an umpteenth lecture on the danger of letting such things so easily control him. He could hear him, still, as he would watch over his and Eskel and Lambert’s sparring lessons, oft times correcting the younger and more impulsive Witcher with wise words bespeaking of a lifetime of experience: _‘A man bent entirely to the will of his passions is not a man who has control over himself’._

The words had struck him to his core, and Geralt had learnt, then, of how dangerous one’s emotions could be when weaponised, had learnt to let go of them, for his own safety as well as that of his brothers.

That the dust of what he’d long ago buried still seemed to linger in his chest was not entirely reassuring.

“I know,” The bard told him, Geralt’s confusion probably evidently depicted upon his features, “Fate has an odd way of going about things, doesn’t she? But alas, I am but a mere mortal man, I can do little else but bow to her whims. Really, Geralt, it’s not so bad.”

“Oh,” A piss-poor response if ever there was one, Geralt supposed it no doubt suited his grandiose lack of communication skills. Truth was, he’d never put much stock into the whole affair of soulmates, not after the Trials, when such concerns had paled in comparison to the far more dire and _real_ plights of the many unfortunate souls he happened to cross when traveling the Continent. Coupled with his lack of emotions and the fact that a Witcher, while bearing a soul-mark, deserved not to impose their listless company upon whoever it was they were tethered too, Geralt had laid to rest the impish dreams of his childhood, made peace with the loss of his other half too.

Jaskier, for his part, had shown a keen interest in such tales, and while he’d not been able to indulge in such sentiment alongside him, Geralt thought it came as little surprise, given his love for life and grand romantic ballads. Stories of star-crossed lovers and intertwined destinies and identical marks binding souls made for acclaimed gigs in the back-ends of taverns and inns, enthralled all kinds of publics, from young children who ought not to have been anywhere near such raucous company to the oldest of men, quietly appreciating a glass of mead at the tail end of a bar, living out the remainder of their lives in relative peace. And for someone who led a life of such steadfast idealism, the Witcher supposed that not only meeting their soulmate but also binding themselves to them in body and soul, must have been the very pinnacle of their lives.

It seemed almost oxymoronic for Jaskier to be so subdued then, Geralt mused, taking a moment to appraise his academic choice of wording – _oxymoronic_ was not a word Witchers tended to have much use for, after all, what with their fondness for a far more corporeal language, which spoke less of the grandiose abstracts of life and more of the tangible realities of their existence. Perhaps he’d introduce his eloquent speech to Lambert, one day, the younger Witcher did have such a foul mouth about him.

“That’s…” He wished he might have had the heart to add something along the lines of _good,_ or _great,_ were he to indulge the bard and give him a comparative, and yet it felt ill-fitting, when Jaskier looked so dejected. Geralt chalked it up to the early hour, remembering with a hint of fondness perhaps, the many complaints thrown his way when he’d roused him up at dawn and Jaskier would ask him for _five more minutes, please. We don’t all have your Witcher stamina, show mercy to a humble mortal man, will you Geralt?_

He tried to tell himself he’d not missed that too, for Geralt knew he deserved not to long for it.

“And you feel him, like in the stories?”

“I do,” Jaskier nodded, “It’s… It takes some getting used to, I suppose, but it certainly lives up to the romantic ballads”.

“And that he _happens_ to be some high-ranking member of Nilfgaardian nobility does not upset you?” He asked, puzzled still as to how exactly their relationship happened to have come about. It did not seem to bother Jaskier – surely, he’d have told him were it the case, would he not? – and if it was ordained by Destiny itself, then what exactly was Geralt supposed to do to undo it? Did Jaskier want him to? Was it even within his rights to try? He might not have had much stock in such higher powers, but even he was not foolish enough to so brazenly stand against it, not after the stunt he’d pulled at Princess Pavetta’s betrothal at any rate.

That Geralt felt so put off by the viscount, he merely blamed it on his own personal history with Nilfgaard and poor Ciri, and, after some consideration, his less than pleasant conversation last night. It was not his place to maybe selfishly want Jaskier to think like him, to force him to adopt Geralt’s world view merely because the Witcher thought it right, but he’d never known the bard to hold any affection towards the Empire, could recall with vivid clarity still the tremor of fear in his voice as he’d balked at the very suggestion that Queen Calanthe might not be able to hold her own against the South, that they would conquer more lands up North. So what had changed?

“Maybe, once, but such concerns are quite ridiculous, Geralt. I’m happy.” Jaskier waved him off, and what else could he do but trust his word? Geralt knew not the viscount the way Jaskier did, had barely been in his company long enough to gather his full name, how could he trust his first impressions when members of the nobility were known to adorn so many masks, one could barely claim to know them at all after decades of spending time in their company? Jaskier shared his soul with the man, had for quite some time too, if Geralt was to go by his words, of course it stood to stand that he knew him better than the Witcher, that he ought to trust him in his judgment. “He’s here, heading a delegation in the name of peace, I’m sure he means it.”

If Jaskier’s thoughts happened to momentarily wander back to the orders clinging to his skin, to Vattier’s craving for Ciri gnawing away at his chest, Geralt never need know about it.

“It’s nice, though, the whole sharing-souls side of things. When he reads poetry or when we amble along the grand halls of his domain, admire the masterpieces adorning every corner, I feel the passion he has in his heart for the arts, and as a fellow artist, I could not ask for more.” He chose to say instead.

Some things might have been slightly _less_ pleasant to feel, and Jaskier thought Geralt never need know about that either. Matters of the soul were not his prerogative to share with just anyone, it would have been infringing upon Vattier’s privacy and desire to keep things between themselves to share what weighed upon him with the Witcher. It wouldn’t have been fair to any of them.

“Really, it’s nothing for your Witcher senses to get in a twist over, I promise.”

“I suppose I ought to be happy for you, then?” Geralt said, though it fell flat to his ears. He knew not, any longer, how such a line ought to be delivered, probably had not the emotions necessary to make it seem genuine – he’d never really met anyone who had found their soulmate either, for that matter. Maybe, somewhere, he recognized the loss, acknowledged that Jaskier being bound to a human who could feel and emote and give him everything a Witcher could never hope to was probably for the best, Geralt would simply have to set his distaste aside for the duration of their journey.

It pulled the hint of a smile from Jaskier, and Geralt tried to tell himself that the shadow of familiarity was not as welcomed as it was, tried not to ponder on why he latched onto something the bard had so casually shared with him in the past, as he easily waved him off, “Small talk suits you ill, Geralt. But thank you for your concern, we’re making it work. Navigating the bond isn’t always easy.”

“I don’t doubt it.” He said, knew all too well how unpredictable the storms could be when he closed his eyes, let his soul wander along the coast whose existence he still did not quite understand. It was a coin toss, really, as to what greeted him once sleep claimed him, though Geralt had to admit that he had a preference for the times when the sky was clear and the sun shone, nothing but the deep turquoise hues of the ocean and sparkling silver sand stretching for miles around him.

The coast had not been like that for some time, for rain – cold, heavy and draining upon his skin – was what tended to greet him most days, if it was not the clap of thunder sending ripples of fear to sear his flesh and an anxiety that felt foreign trying to claw its way into his heart. Geralt could only thank Vesemir’s hard training for his resilience, for without it, he doubted he’d have been able to remain unaffected by them.

Perhaps he’d consider asking the older Witcher about this whole soul business, when he returned to Kaer Mohren, for the storms had gotten progressively worse, as of recent, and Geralt’s lack of sleep was beginning to get to him. He did not wish to leave it get to the stage where he might inadvertently let something slip.

He did not think he wished to share such personal concerns with Jaskier, however, especially with the knowledge that there was probably someone else listening in to anything they said to each other.

Instead, Geralt wished to take advantage of what little time they had together, just the two of them, for he doubted that they would be afforded much privacy once they left Lord Kimbolt’s castle behind later that day.

“And what about you, then, how have you been since…”

_Since we parted ways._

_Since you left._

_Since I drove you away._

The words tasted like ash in his mouth, and Geralt could not bring himself to finish, the fickle embers of what might have been guilt somehow still warm in his chest. If Jaskier taking a step back from him as he tried to close the distance between them somehow happened to acutely sting the tender flesh of his heart, the Witcher supposed it was a fitting reaction, that he deserved that much.

“The mountain?” Jaskier filled him in, as if knowing, yet there was not a trace of anger to be found upon his features. Geralt would have expected it, would have thought it an appropriate reaction to what he had said – and later regretted – that day.

Somewhere, he knew he ought to – no, he amended, _needed_ to – apologize, for _what_ he’d said and _how_ he’d said it, had known, really, ever since the verbal lashing had left his mouth and hung in the air between them, that Jaskier had not deserved his ire. The djinn and the child surprise had been choices Geralt had made, perhaps in haste and ill-thought out, but he understood now, that they had been _his._ Claiming Cirilla, had turned out to be a blessing in disguise, really, the little princess turning out to be a real ray of sunshine, had brightened many a day in the dim halls of Kaer Mohren, brought a little levity and tenderness back into the lives of hardened Witchers and the occasional visit from a Witch.

He’d run into Yennefer regularly, of course, for it was impossible for them to stay out of each other’s lives since Geralt’s ill thought-out wish in Rinde. And while they had yet to fully resolve their differences, the sorceress still deeply hurt by his actions, they had managed to rebuild a tentative friendship, and she’d come through for him in times of need, and Geralt could ask no more than that from her.

Jaskier had been the only one he’d not heard a murmur of, in that time, and Geralt had tried to tell himself that, wherever he was, the bard was fine, maybe even _happy._ Which evidently seemed to be the case (minus his newfound reserve, perhaps), if Jaskier chose to tell him as much.

“Oh I’ve been here and there, I’ve just… _Existed,_ you know.” The bard said, an easy smile that did not quite reach his eyes, Geralt supposed it was probably just because he was tired, aside from his newfound reserve. He seemed mostly… _All right_ otherwise, and he tried not to think on why he latched onto such familiarity in a castle full of people that felt alien to him.

He’d meant to apologize, then, like he’d promised himself he would have done the moment he crossed paths with Jaskier again, regardless of whether or not they would travel together once more afterwards, yet as he looked around to the busy courtiers and the increasing irritable noise as servants and aides prepared what they would need for the first leg of their journey, now seemed not the right time. Such an intimate hurt deserved not to be healed under the avid gaze of nobles and domestic helpers, who were all too eager to latch onto the entertainment with prying eyes and a curiosity for something it was not their right to intrude upon.

And yet… Geralt knew not if they’d get a moment to themselves at all once they rode out later that. He knew already that they were not alone, not really, for Jaskier’s mate – the viscount – wherever he was, would undoubtedly hear what he had to say too, and the Witcher understood not why he felt put off by such an audience.

But this wasn’t about the courtiers, it wasn’t even about the viscount, it was about Jaskier, who was there, right in front of him, Geralt finally having managed to catch up to him after a whole year when the last thing he’d told him was what a blessing his exile out of his life would be. It had been wrong, and cruel of him, and the Witcher wished not for such a transgression to hang over them for the duration of their journey, knew it would do naught but taint every one of their interactions were he to keep his silence.

Geralt wanted not for that.

Geralt wanted for Jaskier to know he held nothing against him, that he’d been wrong.

“For what it’s worth, Jaskier, I’m so-“

But Jaskier did not let him finish, as he stilled at his words, dawning understanding upon the feature of his face and a faint shake of the head as he put the pieces together before all of the words had left his lips. He balked, fisted his hand into his horse’s mane as his body tensed, and never then had the distance between them seemed too insurmountable.

“I can’t.” He choked, did not even look at him.

Maybe that was the worst of it, Geralt thought.

“What?” He said, voice turned hoarse.

“I’m sorry Geralt,” Jaksier apologized, looked anywhere but his face, as his body grew agitated, no doubt looking to escape him, and Geralt’s heart fell at having somehow managed to upset him even now, “I can’t, not now.”

Geralt could feel Jaskier slipping away again like running water, after the winds had only just brought him back to him, and his heart skipped a beat at the thought that after this, he knew not when the next time would be when they would be permitted to converse. A strong urge overcame him then, as he felt his heart sink in his chest, _knew_ in his bones that he could not let him run away just yet, did not give thought to anything but the need to reach out to him, to keep him here for a moment longer.

“Jaskier, I-”

He did not let him finish this time either, words he meant only for him forever remained unsaid.

“I-I must go Geralt, I’m sorry… I’ll see you around, perhaps?”

And with that, Jaskier was gone again, the echo of eerily familiar words hanging in his wake as Geralt watched him walk away, something unpleasant and stifling in his chest.

His thoughts strayed to the black tunic he was wearing and how it seemed somewhat ill-fitting, as it engulfed his thin frame.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next part might take a little longer, I'm afraid, but it's drafted and started, and if all goes well should be out by the 22/07!
> 
> (I'm sorry I take so long to update, I'm a slow writer :( By the looks of things, if this story stays at roughly 40+ chapters like in my draft, it's going to take me the good part of a year to complete haha)


	8. VIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: the first part of this chapter might have some mild suicidal thoughts. I don't really know, but putting it here to be safe.

While significantly more subdued than dinner the previous evening, lunch was, by no means, a quiet affair. The remainder of last night’s ale was quick to break out – in moderation, of course – and the lack of it was compensated in high spirits and lively toasts, as men of all delegations shared in a hearty meal, and already seemed swept up in the fervour of their impending journey.

He looked at them, at how easily they expressed their happiness, their effervescence, how they traded barbed jokes for raunchy tunes, clapped one another on the back and did not hesitate to let their bodies speak for themselves with grand gestures as they would talk loudly, how Cintrans openly invited Skelligans to partake in their word-play and puns, and how a Kaedweni and a Nilfgaardian seemed quite taken with passing less than flattering comments about Lord Kimbolt’s court jester, as the poor man made a fool of himself going up and down the aisle between the two long tables on his hands. They were merry, the political tensions having abated for now, like they knew not what it was like, to forget how to express it upon their faces.

From where he was settled, Jaskier passively observed them, contented himself with merely existing through it all.

At least Valdo Marx seemed to have taken his leave, it was that much less to endure, at least. Small mercies, he supposed

They were not seated at Lord Kimbolt’s table upon the raised marble dais today, their host of a mind that, for the duration of their venture, they should be equals – or give the appearance of such, is nothing else - and so had an extra one brought in, placed at the end of the four lines of delegations, and gave the illusion that, for an hour at least, this was not a matter of political scheming and merely an occasion for hearty food and fine wine. An ephemeral equality, if you will.

Jaskier did not really mind. Seated to Vattier’s right, he supposed it was more preferable than being put on spectacle like last night, a thousand eyes looking his way and eagerly trying to read and pry apart his every sentence and gesture. All he had to do at present was accept the plate and cutlery given to him; the feel of the ornate engravings in the handles were nice: a silver Temerian fleur-de-lys, Lord Kimbolt had clearly thought this through down to the finer details, no doubt a subtle reminder to all here to whom, exactly, they ought to be grateful to for the food, drink and lodgings.

Political matters were not ones for him to let his thoughts linger upon, however, and so instead, Jaskier sat back, a certain weariness still clinging to his skin, heavy and cloying, ever since he’d left the stables that morning. The short walk he’d thereafter taken in Lord Kimbolt’s luscious gardens had seemingly not been enough to rise his spirits, unfortunately. He was content, of course, as he breathed, _existed_ in the moment, but with nothing of much value to offer – for no longer did he sing, and his conversational skills had become indeed become quite stilted over the past year – he wondered why he was here at all. He had no interest in the unicorn (had no interest in _anything,_ really), had no real part to play in the affairs of nobles, barons and viscounts, was not after coin and recognition like the folk around him who so easily bragged of heroic feats they had not yet accomplished.

He had no reason to be here, really, and his existence, right then, seemed rather pointless. What was Jaskier to bring to this expedition, anyway? He was no acclaimed hunter, he’d not held a bow, a lance or a glaive in his hand in what felt like eons, he did not even think he’d be able to lasso a cord around the unicorn’s neck were it asked of him: aside from being there, a spouse to lean on Vattier’s arm, give him the image of gentility, he knew not what he had to offer.

Across from him, laughter arose from the tables, as men young and old enjoyed life and what she had to give. Upon their faces, their smiles did not resemble ugly grimaces but were more akin to a piece of art they crafted with care each time they experienced things such as happiness, fulfilment and joy, strong lines carved into their cheeks belaying years of practice. It looked natural upon their skin, like they might have taken pleasure in feeling such an expression in their features, and the merriment that so easily came to the other men made him feel like dying, inside. It would not have been difficult, either, all Jaskier would have had to do was stop – feeling, thinking, eating, breathing, let it all go and it would end. Death was, after all, inevitable.

He was maybe even half-way there already, he mused, perhaps a little morbidly.

“You should eat, Julian.”

Yet again, it would seem he’d not been careful with his wandering thoughts, must have momentarily forgotten that he no longer was the only one privy to them. Beside him, Vattier murmured what he wished him to do in his ear, and Jaskier could feel his tendrils of his disquietude slithering into his skin as the man heard, too, the thoughts going through his head and the nothingness in his heart. What a terrible person he must think him to be, imposing such grim thoughts upon him when this morning ought to have been a time for levity and merriment.

To everybody else, it must have looked like he was whispering sweet nothings to him, like soulmates were so often rumoured to do in the hidden metaphors of all of the grand poems and ballads that had graced the Continent. Perhaps, to many here, the pair of them were perceived as an expression of the truest of loves one could ever hope to find, the discreet affection a source of envy and want in their hearts, where bloomed desire and wistfulness, at the idea of one day finding the one that had been chosen for them.  
Jaskier could understand, he too had once longed for it too.

Jaskier felt nothing, save for the words trickling into his skin, the weight of their meaning branding him with it’s honesty. It wasn’t so bad, really. It might not have been a direct order, but the feeling of _want_ was still there, and he knew better than to so brazenly disobey – he’d dallied long enough at the stables this morning, he did not need to be the cause of even more bitterness between them – he was not a poet and master of language for no reason, after all. And so, obediently, he reached out to pick something up, let his hand hover a moment in doubt, as he took in the sheer amount there was to pick from.

This was no feast, and yet, the meal could only have been described as extravagantly excessive, the rich smell of meats and cheese and warm breads melding together into something nauseating. There was so much there, he knew not where to start, and so unused was he to making choices nowadays that the prospects of picking even one thing to nibble on seemed overwhelming. Couldn’t the viscount tell him what he ought to take? Maybe he could even make the decision himself, at least, then, Jaskier would be sure to not be cause for discontent in his heart.

He didn’t, left him to his own devices and so Jaskier supposed one lone bread roll could not be too much for him to handle. The choice felt eerily strange in his hands, sent a tingle down his fingers as they brushed the hard crust of a morsel, and he wondered, for a moment, if that would not taint the taste of it. He hesitated, for a moment, as he looked between the two pieces, one piece of bread all golden and still warm, the other one, slightly lighter, had gone hard, probably from an earlier batch then, how was he supposed to pick? What if he did something wrong and ended up with the wrong one, what if someone else turned out to have wanted the piece he chose all along, what would happen then?

The bread did not look half as appetizing as it might have a few moments ago, then, and Jaskier dared look down the table, ran his gaze from the Cintran lord at the end all the way back to Vattier, lingered on him perhaps a moment longer so desperate was he for the man to just _tell_ him what to do.

He didn’t, and Jaskier’s heart pounded, as he looked back to the innocent-looking woven bread basket. The two slices had not moved an inch, had not changed in the slightest, and he supposed that either of them would be all right, right? They were there to be consumed after all, were they not?

He looked away as his fingers seized one, and kept looking away as he brought it to him, absently nibbled on the crust as he let the distant sound of raucous voices swallow him. He half-heartedly considered the pot of jam he could see at the edge of the table, then thought better of it. It wasn’t like it would make much of a difference, everything had begun to turn to ash in his mouth, as of recent, tasted of the same nothingness he was now made of.

Maybe he too, would turn to ash after he passed, he mused, let his mind wander as he imagined what it might be like, to starve himself and watch as death gnawed at his body until there was no longer anything left of him. It would have been so easy, too. The nothingness would be permanent, then, and if Jaskier looked at the bright side of things, his corpse would no longer have to have it thrust upon him for he and the nothingness would be one and the same, and his soul would be at peace, then.

The ashes turned sour in his mouth at the thought, a pang of anguish that was not his own spread in his heart, and upon the coast, the wind spread its poisonous spores deep into the waves, Jaskier feeling it acutely when they lapped up its offerings and tarnished their deep turquoise hues with its disquietude and its hurt. He ought to have known, of course, that his thoughts were no longer privy to his mind alone, ought to have known that he had no right to wish for such grim things to befall him when he was both cared and provided for by someone who held such affection for him.

No longer was he good at reading people, for it had been a skill he’d not had much occasion to hone in Eiddon, but Jaskier was pretty sure that the lines distorting Vattier’s face were creases of upset and concern, and he could not help it as his earlier nothingness turned to bitter guilt, as it twisted his insides at the knowledge that it was all his fault. It bowed the Nilfgaardian – who should have been sat tall, proud and confident, the perfect picture of refined nobility - weighed heavily upon his shoulders, an unwanted burden for him to bare that he’d so selfishly trust upon him without a second thought, and Jaskier’s nothingness turned to acrid guilt at the sight of him setting down his own pastry with practiced calm.

Jaskier had probably turned the food bitter and ruined that for him too.

“I’m sorry,” He said, hoped his voice had not forgotten how to breathe an apologetic lilt to his words, for he truly meant it as such. “I did not mean for my thoughts to stray as such, I-“

“And I forgive you,” He told him, gentle absolution carried upon the sound of a murmur in his ear and in the touch of his fingers, where they wrapped around his wrist in a blisteringly gentle but ever so fleeting touch. Were he more of a romantic fool, Jaskier might even have hoped for the little pieces of affection seeping into his skin to make it easier to breathe, as he leaned into him, ever so slightly. They didn’t.

“But do not think such things, Julian, I’d see you bloom and _be._ A pretty flower like yourself deserves to breathe rather than let itself wilt and die. I shan’t allow it.”

And with a gust of wind to accompany his words, it took upon its wings the dying crude embers of a faint desire Jaskier had no right to want for - that he’d dared let germinate there, and turn such a beautiful place so ugly - and scattered them in the far off distance, where he could no longer see them. Jaskier felt them being carried away, felt the weight of such morbid thoughts being lifted from his chest, and before he had time to expect his usual emptiness, he felt something else burn in his breast instead – foreign, for he was no longer used to it anymore. His mouth tingled, as he tasted upon his tongue a sweetness he’d not bitten into, the lingering traces of what he thought might have been a syrupy strawberry a delicately pleasant texture to linger upon, and it was as his lips stretched, awkwardly, into what might have been a smile that it hit him.

He looked to him, eyes wide in wonder and suddenly short of breath, as Vattier so generously gifted him his appreciation for the jam of his pastry, hoped this language of silence they danced in would be enough to convey his gratitude. Jaskier thought he might have been much obliged for being saved from his dull thinking. _Thank you,_ he thought, and knew that, while he looked not his way since he was now politely entertaining his neighbour from Skellige with a conversation, at the hint of upturned lips, the faint warmth in his chest, and the fingers that fully wrapped around his own, that the viscount had heard him.

Vattier wanted not for him to die, he wanted him to keep things the way they were, wished for him to savour life by his side instead. Jaskier supposed that was fine, that surely it must have meant that he loved him, in his own way. He would, after all, not have tethered his soul and his emotions to him if he did not love him in some capacity, right?

Vattier wished for him to live, and while it may have been too much to ask of him, right then, Jaskier thought he could try to aim for the closest thing possible. He could keep existing by his side, would keep breathing, would see this day through, and the next, and the one after that too, if it was what made the man happy.

The rolling of thunder in the clouds sent shivers down into the waves, and it almost felt nice. _Almost._

Beneath the table, the hand on his thigh through which he could sense Vattier’s fulfilment and satisfaction felt heavy, alien emotions Jaskier no longer understood trying to connect with a part of him that had long ago shattered and ceased to exist. It took him a moment, to part the tendrils of what he understood not anymore for him to find something familiar, and when the viscount generously gifted him back his earlier contentedness, Jaskier allowed himself to breathe it in with measured restraint, his chest felt lighter, a little more full.

His previous misery lifted, slightly, and while he still had no appetite, Jaskier hoped that the emotion would be enough to sustain him until they inevitably halted that evening, probably after they set up camp in the middle of nowhere, a piece of rabbit to roast if they were lucky. It was enough, he needed not anything more than that.

The liveliness wasn’t so bad, then, when he looked at their party, and if he lingered on Geralt slightly longer than he ought to have, well Jaskier did not think there was any harm in that. He thought he might have liked his company, no matter how quiet it may have been, for he’d grown somewhat accustomed to his grunts and sparse communication, had grown to appreciate the simple honesty there was to it when the bard compared it to the grand airs and practiced lies that oft were a core part of the grand noble celebrations he once performed at. He regretted, then, turning him away at the stables, as he watched him entertain a couple of gents of the Cintran delegation – he looked somewhat awkward, of course, but readily raised his glass and toasted with his neighbours with a polite smile upon his face. Things seemed so much simpler, down with those who needed not to adorn noble masks, who could just _be_ and had not the weight of the world upon their shoulders.

Once upon a time, Jaskier might even have been performing alongside them too, might even have joined him after, a cup of fine wine in hand, his other might have lingered upon Geralt’s shoulder for a moment before offering him a drink, and he’d have settled himself next to him, not a thought in the world of such a mundane thing one day becoming out of reach for him. He might have drunkenly waxed poetic about his long and luscious silver hair, how the twinkle in his golden eyes made them stand out, or some other stupid metaphor no doubt, but it would have come from the heart, it would have been honest like the manner in which he’d barely spoken this morning had not been. The seats separating them, while few, seemed like such a wide chasm to him now, and with another’s hand upon his forearm reminding him of his place, Jaskier knew such wistful nostalgia was not something he ought to linger upon.

Relegated to a simple observer, then, he did just that and _observed,_ instead. Geralt seemed well enough, despite his probable apathy at the conversation he’d been dragged into, if the exhaustion upon his features was anything to go by. The poor Witcher had probably not slept well, not with the celebrations going on until an ungodly hour that morning for those who were not accompanying them, and his unfortunate neighbours seemed to have little qualms as to his comfort.

Jaskier might have asked of them a little more consideration for their companion, once upon a time, knew, now, that it was no longer his place to do so, and instead of letting such bitter thoughts consume him, he turned back to his bread and picked at it half-heartedly, tried to focus on how the softer middle felt as he rolled it in his hands. He probably let most of it fall back on his plate if he were being honest too.

Somewhere, distantly, he knew he should have been feeling light, elated, happy. He was not sure he quite remembered how.

“… And as a former bard, Julian here positively _loves_ his singing, do you not, little flower?”

At the mention of his name, Jaskier was pulled back from his musings, looked up from his untouched plate, confused, at the expectant looks upon their faces, Vattier’s included. What reason the viscount had for talking of his singing, he knew not, for it was not like the man liked it very much, much less allowed it very often in the private sanctuary of his castle. Yet he raised an expectant eyebrow to him, his every gesture perfectly calculated, and if Jaskier sounded the bond they shared, he could feel a very faint desire for it in his chest too.

His voice a little louder then, a performance for both him and their esteemed audience, the viscount said, “If you’re not going to eat, then why not give us a good song, since Marx seems to have taken his leave. Men, what say you?”

Around them, the tables burst into a merry cheer, clamours for a plethora of titles bursting from their lips, and Jaskier felt his stomach turn at their heavy expectations. Vattier did not like his singing, so why indulge his craft now, when he knew Jaskier felt little to no desire for it, for they both knew that doing so now would be naught but an empty shell of what he’d once been able to pull off. He had loved singing, once, when he’d not been aware of how stupidly superficial it was of him to pour his body and soul into his every song. He’d grown and learnt the errors of his ways, though, and Jaskier knew better now, the viscount had taught him well, had opened his eyes to how empty his art truly was, when one stripped away the grand metaphors and loud voice.

This was not a request that came from the heart, there was no real love for him to sing to be found in the man’s heart, and instead, Jaskier found himself faced with a will to be privy to a performance of a different kind, a desire to put him on display for one’s amusement instead.

His heart beat louder at the realisation, and Jaskier knew the viscount could feel it too, in the way he sat straighter, braced himself against the current of his conflicting crumbled feelings. It did not seem to bother him, however, for his discomfort seemed to be all too alluring to him, as Vattier merely seized what he willed of it, consumed that too with avid greed as their company remained none the wiser to their little game. He felt it, acutely, an ache in his chest as pieces of his discomfort were chipped away with a deliberate languidness, the rapt drawn out the longer Jaskier hesitated.

_Well, what are you waiting for, Little Flower? We’d like you to sing._

Already he could feel Vattier’s want clawing its way towards him, latching onto his skin and sinking into the pores and crawling into the very fabric of his being, and Jaskier’s knees trembled beneath the immensity of its weight, nearly caved in on the spot as it began to consume him too. His chest ached, his heart beat too loud in his ears, and he wondered, for a moment, how nobody seemed to hear he chaotic cacophony of it all over their idle talk, for it certainly drowned them out to his ears in that moment. It was such a shame that such ugly music sang from his core.

_I don’t-!_

_I don’t-!_

“I don’t think…” He began, and his meek voice sounded utterly pathetic, even to his ears. Where was the bard who’d once exuded confidence as he clamoured his songs high and loud in every inn and tavern he could find, heedless of how little he may have been wanted there?

Jaskier kicked himself, for a bard he was no longer, he’d renounced being as such ever since he’d agreed to this _thing_ – this _bond,_ he corrected himself - it was, that he and Vattier shared.

_That’s right, don’t think, just do as I say and everything will be fine, remember?_

An echo of a familiar murmur in his ear, the lingering burn of fingers brushing his cheek and want blossoming in his chest, and still it felt… Off, _wrong._ Jaskier had learnt not to want for much anymore, and although he still found it hard, at times, to draw the line between things he occasionally wished for and fragmented feelings that were naught but the fruit of his wild imagination – that were not _real_ – he was certain that he did not want to perform this crude parody of his art, was of a mind that his singing, no matter how scarce a place in his life it now had, deserved better than to be _used_ like this.

And yet, a want for song was still to be found in his breast, burned his insides hungrily as it made itself known and sent tingles down his fingers, made them itch for the familiar wood of an elven lute he’d been gifted years ago. It should have been pleasant, it should have been nice, to reconnect with his music, let it flow through his body once more, and  
Jaskier only felt his heart drop and his body stiffen, hands crisped around the arms of his chair as if it would stop them from desecrating his instrument any further, as he realized what was happening.

 _Please, please don’t do this,_ he begged the voice in his head, wishing it would take away its words and the feelings that had come with it. He had to bite his lip to stop himself from saying so aloud in his desperation and embarrass them both, so terrified was he at the idea of to having to bear witness to his own desires morph into something they weren’t and feel such a defilement in his heart.

Usually, Jaskier minded not, their shared wants, protested little when Vattier’s desires became his own. His music, however, was the one thing he wished he could keep from him if he could, for Jaskier knew it to be his and his alone, and a modicum of privacy to appreciate it would have, perhaps, been nice.

 _This is all_ you _too, Julian, we are one and the same, what I desire, so do you._

And yet, that was also the truth, was it not? As much as they may have been separate people, they had also come together and melded parts of themselves into each other’s souls, made them one, in a way, and already, Jaskier could feel his fingers itching to touch again the strings of his lute, gift it tender care and let it sing like he’d not had the chance to do in too long as they would grace the halls with song and cheer. It would be a merry tune, one his hands would know all too well so often would they have played it in another  
life, and his body would dance with it, would let the melody coil around him and live for naught but that in that very moment.

_It is only singing, Julian, it is a performance. You live for those, do you not? You’ve already disobeyed me once, today, please do not do so again._

It was faint, but Jaskier thought he might let Vattier’s want take hold of him just for the time of a song, thought he might, for a fleeting moment, let himself foolishly believe it was his. It would be easier, certainly. And like he’d said, it was but one song, surely Jaskier could indulge the man’s love for the arts the time of a couple of minutes, could he not?

“I… I,” The viscount was right after all (like he so often was), and after a moment to think it over, Jaskier thought that maybe he’d gotten it all wrong, maybe he _did_ want this, even if it wasn’t as ardently as it might have once been, even if it did leave him feeling strangely empty, still. “I’ll go and retrieve my lute, then.”

And if he stumbled away from the grand table with a dazed look in his eyes and a certain uncertainty to his step, well the rest of the nobles were kind enough not to comment on it.

 _Just do as you want and everything will be fine,_ Jaskier repeated in his head, a little frantic perhaps as his body moved quite without him remembering saying so. He kept his head down, thought himself not entierly ready to meet the expectant gazes of the seated guests as he tried to make for the door as hastily as possible, Vattier liked not to be kept waiting, patience was unfortunately not a virtue he always cared to indulge.

The Great Hall had gone quiet, the echo of his footsteps on the expensive dais their own crude imitation of a frantic concerto that no doubt belayed his hesitance. Jaskier tried not to think about it as he looked to the two massive wooden doors, eyes riveted on the shimmering handle and very much not meeting anyone’s eyes hungrily lapping up his walk of shame. Musicians were not supposed to doubt themselves, _You want this, Jaskier,_ he reminded himself, for it was true… Right? He did want this, did he not? The unpleasantness that had settled deep in his stomach and the bitterness in his throat as he prepared himself to sing were only there because he’d eaten too little, surely, and his shaking hands were so, of course, because this would be the first public performance he deigned to offer in a long time, right? Jaskier tried telling himself as much, as he felt his breathing picking up, panicked gasps that were no doubt unbecoming of a noble of his rank.

_Fuck, shit, pull yourself together, Jaskier, you want this, don’t you?_

Only when the bitterness got worse and his knees shook did Jaskier realise that maybe… Just maybe, he did _not_ want it, for _want_ was no longer a thing for him to experience, wasn’t it? But what was he to do? Talking back would have been very ill-fitting for the company they were in, an embarrassing stain branding the whole of Nilfgaard’s reputation, his discomfort could surely not take precedence over the squires and advisors that Vattier had brought along with them, let alone the lower-class Nilgaardians they were supposed to represent. What image of the Empire would he be upholding, were he to cow in the face of a little unease?

It would have been downright selfish of him, to refuse, when Jaskier knew it not to be his place to do so, and so, when Vattier’s gaze bore a hole in the back of his head, he withered once again, and obediently forced his body to quicken it’s pace.

The viscount’s order was quick to do the rest of the job for him, as his frustration at his stupid reticence carried him all the way to the other end of the room, and before Jaskier knew it, his fingers were around the cold steel handle – it was almost a nice contrast, to the burning desire in his heart, maybe he’d include that in a song, someday - when he was stopped in his tracks.

“Perhaps… Perhaps rowdy songs can wait for a while longer, my lords. For are they not better suited for travel? We shall have ample opportunity to hear them once we’re out on the road.”

Jaskier dared not turn, for he knew not if he’d be able to stop himself expressing a hint of relief, but Geralt’s warm voice was a soothing balm as it reached him, for it was gentle upon his skin in a way that was almost nostalgically familiar, and it was only after he’d let it out that he noticed his trembling breath. For the space for a moment, when everyone else was too taken by his audacity, Jaskier let himself have it, let the words sink into him too, let the gruff voice with soft edges try and curb the stern order still clinging to him, as it began to lightly unwrap the coiling winds of the viscount’s desires around his body.

Had he not long ago run out of tears to cry, he might have sobbed as the pressure holding him in its grasp released without a warning, might have considered throwing himself at Geralt’s feet and showered him with honest gratitude for the remained of his days too, as he could feel his lungs expand and breathed greedily – he shouldn’t, he knew, dabbling in such indulgences was not good for his soul, but he could not stop himself. Instead, Jaskier stilled, hand on the door and breath heavy, as he waited for the inevitable fallout, for he was intimately acquaintance with the superb might of Vattier’s upset and disappointment when the man found himself turned down, unable to tend to his heart’s desires.

It was almost poetically romantic.

He looked back to him, then, a silent question of what he ought to do next never making it past his lips. And when he sought out their bond in the hopes of appeasing him without causing further a scene, Jaskier was met with a wall, a cloud of grey smoke he could not grasp, as Vattier’s emotions were, once again, locked away from him in a place he could not tend to them, his thoughts and desires muddled and unreadable. His fingers twitched in anticipation, his heart beat louder in his chest as he prepared himself for the lashing of a fallout, and he dared not breathe, afraid the mere sound of it would reach him from where he stood, would upset him enough to lose his restraint and for the lightning to tear him apart right where he stood.

Jaskier had bared the brunt of the viscount’s anger before, when they’d still been testing the limits of what their souls shared and trying to figure out the clever intricacies how their new bond worked, had little desire to do so again, especially in front of such an audience, in front of _Geralt._

“True,” He said, his voice like thin ice and Jaskier could feel it ready to crack at the seams, the emotions barely kept in check beneath the illusion of a veneer calm. Vattier honed with reverend care his appearance, worked effortlessly in the sculpting of the image of himself he gave off to others, but above all else, Jaskier knew he liked to keep a firm hand on things. The man had said it was an unfortunate side-effect that came with the responsibilities of being a viscount, that it drove him to go to great lengths to achieve what he desired, and he could feel how horrible for him it was, to have Geralt so unexpectedly take it away from him.

By all accounts, he should have been telling him that he would do it regardless, that he would sing merely because Vattier _wanted_ him to sing.

Jaskier just wasn’t sure that it was something _he_ wanted.

“I’m certain that Julian will be more than willing to entertain us at a later point, won’t you Julian?”

“Yes, of course.” Flashing his obedience once again, Jaskier merely said what was expected of him – no, what he was _choosing_ to say, for his words were his to choose as he saw fit – and as Vattier flicked his wrist at him, invited him back to his side once again, Jaskier allowed himself to breathe once again, the momentary tension breaking as, at the tables, after a tense moment of silence, the unease all but shattered at their feet and their company returned to their earlier fervour, idle talk of mythical beasts and battle prowess reaching his ears as he hastily walked by.

Once, he might have stopped, indulged in such tales and used them as inspiration for epics and ballads he would later pen down in the early hours of the morning, when the lone candle he’d managed to purchase from a kind innkeeper threatened to burn out. That Jaskier, however, had long ago been put to rest, no longer belonged in the life he now lead, and so he hastily walked by, tried not to let himself get distracted by such talk as he saw to what had been asked of him.

He dared not look Geralt’s way, knew better than to indulge in _that_ regard.

Vattier’s hand upon his wrist when he unsteadily took his seat once again, was heavy, weighed down by upset and the seedlings of anger he dared hope the viscount would not let grow there. It was not exactly pleasant, as it too, slithered into his skin, gnawed at his bones and soured his relief, but Jaskier understood it to be better than having the viscount lashing out – which, again, could simply not stand due to his stature. He knew it could not be easy for him, to have to restrain himself as such, and thought it only natural to try and alleviate the man’s bitterness as he sought to unload his emotions into him instead.

Jaskier could do little else but sit back, thoughts of picking at his morsel of bread long gone as the sting of acerbity penetrated his body, and vainly hoped that, when the storm inevitably hit, he would be granted the small mercy of being able to duck far enough beneath the waves to be spared the worst of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If, like me, you live in France, happy Bastille Day, I suppose :)
> 
> Thank you all so much for your kind comments and kudos, really! :))


	9. IX

When exactly they had left Temeria, Jaskier could not have said for sure.

The first morning on the road had been somewhat uncomfortable, Pegasus’ eagerness for the outdoors jostling his still tender body, but he learnt to make do with it and as the rawness in his hips eased, eventually, and when the days slowly began to bleed into one another, Jaskier elected to let them pass in a nice blur. One faded into the other, one week eventually turned into three (or perhaps it was a month? He was not sure, anymore, time had become a funny thing, intangible thing forever sipping through his fingers) and before he knew it, he was right as rain again.

Jaskier was left alone, for the most part, during the day, Geralt had taken up his place at the end of their procession, Vattier at the head of it, alongside Lord Kimbolt and the other major nobles. His only companions were the viscount’s desires and frustrations that Jaskier openly embraced in his soul and tried to feel as acutely as he could, for he’d learnt that they were preferable to the empty void he’d somehow become. In exchange offered him his body and the soft touches he could still find it in himself to muster on the nights they were afforded a little privacy, it was only fair that he balance things out between them, for they were equals. He didn’t mind, not really, he’d never been averse to a little physical company, before.

His appetite had not returned since the feast in Visima, despite the viscount’s encouragements for him to eat more, for the food the men so easily shared around a fire and hearty tales of their homelands still tasted like ash upon his tongue, where it dissolved into nothingness. The crusts of bread had become a constant now, and Jaskier had grown to see in them a little something he could control in his life – Vattier would not debase himself in front of their esteemed company and force him to eat like some child, his stature was far too high a price for him to pay. He let it drop, eventually, merely ordered him not do die, and offered him instead his own wellbeing to feed off on days even mere crumbs seemed like too much for him.

Jaskier felt guilty for taking it – an unpleasantly stifling emotion for the short while he was permitted to have it – for he could sense, beneath, the violent frustration brewing in the man’s chest at his pig-headedness, an oh-so-human brutality he’d so far managed to repress from outwardly expressing, but one that left the bard’s bones aching and his soul weary when the sun set.

It had become exhausting, resisting the downpour of rain every night.

“Live a little, Julian,” He’d told him one morning, a scratchy kiss claiming his neck and versed hands mapping out the skin of his hips with a familiar ease, “Live a little and go to your Witcher, ask him about the girl, and I would not have to sustain you like this.”

Jaskier had not the heart to tell him that Geralt was not _his,_ and never would be, for the Witcher was his own person and belonged to nobody but himself.

Cities eventually turned into little towns, little towns turned into quaint villages, and quaint villages turned into grand rolling hills and the lush emeralds of grassy meadows, and through it all, Vattier was the only source of consistency he had, for while the shades of the trees – from deep greens to rich browns - and the many notes sung by the wind as she deigned accompany them sometimes were ever-changing, the viscount was the one Jaskier woke up next to every morning, the viscount was the one who asked and took, the viscount was the one who touched and cared, the viscount was the one who let him have his musings and his faint curiosity, when Jaskier deigned listen to whatever jokes happened to amuse their delegations. His orders were preferable to their laughter and amusement, things that had become alien to him, that he no longer understood, even if there could only be so many variations to a song along the lines of _“Ask the Witcher about the girl”._

Jaskier had yet to go to him, to Geralt, for he did not think he had the heart to unless he really had no other choice. He’d not yet been compelled to do so, he counted it as a blessing.

Sometimes, he tried to make it so Vattier’s words would not reach him, when he let his mind wander, stripped his heart of any ember of emotion it might have mustered and filled himself with a hollow chasm instead. If he held nothing, he had nothing to offer, nothing to be taken and as long as he kept things so, the bittersweet tang of loss was not one for him to experience for now. Were he less versed in the art, were his head still filled with ridiculous metaphors and superficial affection for silly things like it once had been (he’d learnt to better himself since, of course) this journey might have been a more painful experience for his soul. As it was, all Jaskier had to do was put his mind to it, really, close his senses to empty conversation and focus instead on how his body shifted, just slightly, when Pegasus happened to step on uneven pebbles and debris, on the touch of a low branch upon his shoulder and how the harshness of the wood differed from the consistent softness of the leaves or on how the late evening breeze bit his skin and turned his cheeks a rosy pink and swept away dust and dirt and the unique nothingness he’d been experiencing that day.

It was a different kind of touch upon his skin, and Jaskier welcomed it, mused, perhaps, on how he might have bitterly complained, once, when the puffy sleeves of his doublet caught on low hanging branches and amassed a sheen layer of dust upon it by the time night fell: he’d grown so much from the egotistical fool he’d once been. No longer did he seek to brush the bits of leaves away, like he might have, before, for out here, he did not think he had to keep up the image of a perfectly pristine noble, they were all bound to show their imperfections at some point, might as well get a head start. The leaves that did fall in his hands, Jaskier kept, for the feel of them was a nice contrast to the harsher and well-loved leather of Pegasus’ reigns, and he would perhaps think harder at how the delicate things felt against the skin of his palm as he looked to the horizon, where the sky bowed down to meet the tops of the trees, as it seemed to be ever more clear now that they had left civilization behind them.

The pines were taller out here, he noticed as they passed them, the groves they happened upon with more frequency as they left the capital behind them danced with a liveliness that Jaskier had not seen in a long time, the trees and gardens of Visima and Eiddon having been carefully tailored and cut down to suit the whims of the ever-changing hearts of their liege lords. Out here, they moved with the breeze, danced to its tune and every leaf rustled with its own unique chant, a choir of nature for their procession to pass through with far more to sing about than he probably ever would. He wondered, then, as he looked at them, where one might draw the line between wild trees and domesticated ones – could one even _domesticate_ a tree? How did that work? Perhaps it was in the way they rose, proud and so infinitely tall, as they reached for the heavens, nothing holding them back from such grand ambitions, not even the earth-shattering rumble of thunder and the blazing burn of lightning.

Jaskier shuddered at the thought of it, his body far too intimately acquaintanced with the searing embrace they both tended to give, oft times with far too much attentiveness. He had little love for the feeling of lighting upon his skin, for it burned something terrible, left his flesh red and raw and bleeding, the salt water of the waves a cruel illusion of salvation. He’d let himself fall for it, at the beginning, before he’d grown used to it, had tried to douse the pain in his skin with the deep blues of the ocean, only for it to make it so much worse when it seeped into his pores, set alight the throbbing vestiges of hurt instead of acting as the soothing balm he’d foolishly hoped it to be. Unlike the trees, he’d learnt to keep his head down and to snuff out his ambitions, the skies were not for the waves to reach for anyway.

It was fine, Jaskier thought he might be content watching someone else reach for them instead.

He had something else to reach for anyway, namely a Witcher and a child surprise. He was acutely aware of what he was supposed to do, could feel it in his chest, where Vattier’s want had settled ever since that first morning in Temeria and had yet to stop burning its way into his bones. Jaskier wanted to talk to Geralt, he really did, as did he wish to ask him about Princess Cirilla, but he had time, still, _there is no need to rush things too quickly, Julian. Be careful in how you ask him._

It was what he had been told when they’d first set out, one month down the road, and matters were much different for Vattier.

Unable to handle his lack of restraint, Jaskier felt it acutely, when the viscount sought to gift it to him, the downpour of rain turning his heart bitter as droplets of frustration and impatience soaked into the ground, drowned the poor daffodils that had bloomed along the coastline and sent them crashing into the sea, where they disappeared beneath the waves, lost forever. They were clever in their dance, however, for neither he nor Vattier uttered a word of their exchange to the others, this was a masterpiece it was not their right to be privy to, a waltz meant only for them – and even at that, the steps changed so often, Jaskier pained to keep up, the flashes of lightning upon his skin reminders that it was not his place to let himself go, that he had a job to do. By the time the sun rose the next morning, the rain had receded, for a while, and when Jaskier looked down at himself before he buttoned up his shirt, he thought he ought to admire the faint bruising on his skin, a tableau born of the embrace of two artists the night before. It was oddly beautiful, he noted, how Vattier mastered with such precision his pigmentation in how hard or how softly he pressed, an expression of the intensity with which he loved his craft no doubt.

Jaskier wondered if, one day, he too might become such an accomplished artist. He lived for them, for the arts, thought it would be quite fitting for him to become a masterpiece if the viscount was to be the accomplished painter, let him teach him his ways so he too, could hope to wield such a talent with colours and emotions.

It was the unpredictability of it all, however, that he tended to find somewhat unsettling: human emotions were so volatile and substantial things for one to feel, and they hung heavily over his head at all times. Most days went by without a hitch, Jaskier merely did as he was told, and as a reward, was allowed his contentedness and whatever emotions Vattier decided paint his canvas with, and that was all right, he needed not more, he was satisfied with what he had. It was the times the man, all of a sudden, let himself be set aflame and consumed by anger or bitterness when something was not done to perfection or slipped from his grasp, how he knew not how to address him in those moments, nor knew what he was to do, the constant walking on eggshells, that was difficult to predict, for he knew not when the next time would be. The viscount always made it a point to apologize, however, at night, when he held him down and his lips branded honest kisses upon his skin, left him with marks the next morning he could not remember acquiring, marks Vattier had washed away many a time with a brush of his fingers and another kiss to his forehead, what he was sure must have been sincere love bleeding through his flesh.

How was Jaskier supposed to hold any resentment towards him when he treated him so gently? He might not have been able to muster much anymore in terms of affection, since most of his feelings of passion and sentiment had been consumed by the Nilfgaardian a long time ago now, but he knew when to let it seep into his flesh when touched with tenderness or offered a fleeting smile – and in those moments, Jaskier knew that Vattier must love him, for they were rare, and what was rare was precious, was his to hold close to his heart and treasure for years to come.

Later, when they had all retreated to their respective tents for the night, belly full and the last vestiges of song he’d not dared indulge in, Jaskier had even been permitted to let his gratitude bloom into a cluster of bittersweets along the coastline, all muted purples and golden pistils, open and welcoming the blow of wind in their core. They were fragile little things, as they danced beneath the rain to the tune of thunder, a strong gust of breeze at times tearing a petal or two along it’s way, tossed into the air at the element’s mercy for as long as the wind thought it entertaining to waltz with, then left to die amidst the waves, as they sank beneath the water, consumed entirely.

It was only a part of them, the wind sought, Jaskier supposed, and while the torn flowers made something ache in his breast, as he felt them break and witnessed them be irreparably damaged with a heavy heart, he was nonetheless grateful there were still flowers left standing the next morning – albeit shakily, perhaps – the scattered lilac petals upon the lush green grass painted a nice contrast, even. Perhaps he’d consider writing it into song, one day.

In the meantime, he did what he could to save the other flowers, gifted Vattier his obedience in the hopes of sparing their little heaven a while longer, saw to the mundane tasks he asked of him and lapped up the pride he exuded for him when it was done to his satisfaction. His affection - his _love_ \- was an exhausting kind of love, the kind that demanded a lot and left him empty and drained at the end of the day, but, Jaskier reasoned, was that not what love was all about? Did love not require one give their significant other parts of themselves in order to make them happy?

Jaskier did love him, knew that what they shared _must_ have been love, for why else would they have been bound otherwise? What did it matter, really, if it left him exhausted and feeling a little less like himself at the end of the day – Vattier said they shared souls, it was to be expected, then, that the man and everything that made him who he was became part of him too, he mused.

Perhaps it might not have been quite as romantic as he’d once thought it to be, and Jaskier lingered not on such thoughts either. Instead, he let the viscount gnaw at him and take what he pleased, and attempted to make up for what he’d lost by waking the next day at dawn, tried to find something beautiful in the way the rich purples bled into the soft pinks in the early morning sky, when their company had yet to awaken from their slumber. The soft blend of the colours had, dare he say it, a certain elegance to it, like one might have seen in the grand paintings adorning the halls of kings and barons.

It had become difficult for him, to find a deeper appreciation for them, perhaps he’d lost his touch.

Through it all, he tried not to linger upon the fact that he’d yet to talk to Geralt. The _want,_ although certainly not what it might have once been, was still present in his breast, tried to sway him into going to the Witcher with sweet words and gentle memories, lull him into a sense of familiar security and let him talk. Jaskier knew not whether the want was his own or Vattier’s – at this point, their aspirations had melded so much together one could no longer say where one’s desires ended and the other’s began, and, really, did it matter all that much? – all he was certain of was that he had managed, so far, to put that conversation off. Geralt’s child surprise was safe from him and the intentions that tainted his heart for now.

 _Stop thinking about Geralt,_ he chastised himself just as quickly, for the more he thought of him, the more his mate would know he was stalling. Jaskier did not think he particularly fancied imagining what that conversation might be like, he was intimately aware of what an upset not his own felt like, souring his soul and marking his skin.

So he emptied himself once again, let go of his thoughts and let his body be jostled around as Pegasus faithfully lead him along – very much ignored the discomfort that bloomed in his tender thighs and his sore lower back born of a firm loving grip. In another lifetime, he might have been bitterly complaining about it to Geralt, heedless of how irritating such talk must have been for the poor Wticher. Jaskier had, of course, learnt better since then.

With little else to soothe the emptiness, Jaskier tried to focus on something more tangible, that he could almost brush with his fingers, the river currently running alongside them seemed as good a candidate as any, he supposed. He watched, absently, as the water ran its course, undisturbed by rocks and life crawling within it, the bubbling stream a pleasant sound to his ear. There were no hidden intentions to be found in its song, there were no secrets for the river to hide in its clear water, and if Jaskier leaned over in his saddle slightly, he could almost make out the many shades of greys, blacks and browns of the pebbles sitting in it’s bed.

He wondered how they might sound, when they clinked together, and imagined that, along with bubbling and the rustle of the grass on the banks, the song the river must sing must have seemed quite pleasant to the local fauna when they came to quench their thirst. The river certainly looked quite appealing, the water a shimmering silver where the sharpest of the sunrays hit it gently, and were he a true artist and still possessed his grand words and metaphors, Jaskier might have been able to commit the image to memory, to share such a simple thing with anyone who might have needed a little distraction.

Maybe, once, he might even have found it beautiful.

Maybe, once, he might have been sorrowful at having lost his touch with his craft. His skills had not truly been honed in nigh a year, Jaskier having learnt to use his words for the more corporeal and palpable, for what a waste of time it was, for one to try and entrap such intangible images in the confines of one’s language. No, Jaskier had grown, had learnt to divest himself of his silly ways, knew it was not for him to dare indulge in again, lest he wish for bitterness to once again bloom between him and Vattier.

Which he did not particularly fancy, he had upset him more than enough already, and they had not even been on the road for an entire day yet.

High above him there was a piercing cry among the clouds – when exactly, and how long it had been since he’d abandoned his ridiculous musings on the river, he would not have been able to say, what was time anyway? – no doubt some bird of prey disturbed by their boisterous passing. Jaskier did have to admit that the procession of horses and the chatter of nobles, squires and other men did not exactly make for a nice symphony. Yet while the song they played may not have been the most pleasing, there was a comforting rhythm to be found in it, the pace set by Lord Kimbolt was lively, to say the least. The only break in their melody happened to be when one of their horses decided to snort at another, when the latter got too close, the spat between the two riders accompanying lyrics Jaskier could not bring himself to care for.

The only horse who had yet to participate in their chorale was Roach, who was not too far ahead of him. The mare was as he remembered her to be, a relic of the past into which life seemed to have been breathed anew, as though the clamours she remained ever calm, imperturbable, untouched by the noise around her much the same way as her rider, Geralt only seemed to answer the occasional poor soul who dared ask him a question with one of his habitual non-committal grunts.

There was a certain familiarity to it all, as he watched the way Geralt leaned just slightly, his body tense but still listening – Witchers were far more polite than one tended to give them credit for- and if he momentarily forgot about their company, let their song fade to the background and singled out an equine snort and a fond _hmm_ his heart remembered all too well, he could almost fool himself into believing things were exactly like they had been… _Before._

They weren’t, of course, and no sooner had Jaskier entertained the thought that he harshly reprimanded himself – he ought to be better in control of his silly musings – for unlike back then, Jaskier now had a voice but no song to sing, and if he looked at Geralt more closely, eyed the fine lines of his face – so familiar yet so different too, the passage of time upon a memory was such an odd antithesis to bear witness to – he dared think that the Witcher almost appeared to be less guarded than he remembered him being, once upon a time, for the traits of his face had softened, somewhat, when one of the young squires from Skellige dared ask him some honest question, and around his reigns, he could see his grip loosen just slightly. Unfortunately, though, Geralt seemed not to be able to unwind himself any further, for as his companion paced his horse to match Roach, Jaskier noticed him stiffen in his saddle, and he held himself upright almost as if he wished not for him to witness the little cracks of humanity he hid beneath his armour, dreading, no doubt, for the human to take advantage of his moment of vulnerability like Jaskier’s kind could oft be prone to do.

There was something bitter borne out of such a realization, after everything he had done for humans, Jaskier thought Geralt deserved better than to anticipate them taking yet _more_ from him.

_He’s a Witcher, Julian. Witchers are not human, their hearts hold not a shred of humanity, like ours, no matter how tame they may seem. Ambition and emotion are concepts too complicated for beasts such as them to grasp, they are things they do not have. Do not mourn something that was never there, to begin with Little Flower._

Jaskier listened, did not retort. What was he to say, when he had little words worth sharing these days?

He’d grown to excel at it, _listening,_ and thought, not without a hint of irony, that Geralt might even have been proud of him, he who had so few words to give and who Jaskier remembered being rather fond of his quiet way of life. Whether it be the stilted small talk of nobles in court in Eiddon, the soft murmurs of the trees in the palace gardens or the song of Vattier’s wants and desires beating in his heart, Jaskier had cultivated his knowledge in the past year, knew now how to read the partitions upon which was written their craft and sing it with the notes of silence and keep the symphony in his heart, where others who understood not the intricacies of the bond they shared could not see. He no longer sang, had been told that his voice was far too intimate a thing to debase for the entertainment of men – Vattier’s entertainment was another story, and he counted it as a blessing that he was still permitted to sing for him, even if his voice no longer held the strength it once might have had – and so when one of the men from Skellige thought it a good idea to demand that his voice perhaps raise their spirits with a song, Jaskier complied to what he’d been ordered to do, refused the men their amusement and indulged his mate instead, drank the praising satisfaction that bled through his fingers when the viscount let it rest upon his thigh.

If the viscount’s touch ended up being somewhat harsher, clawing the ledger lines out of his body, his avid soul eager to feast upon the arts and hungry for something aesthetically pleasing to him and happened to leave Jaskier cold and empty in the process, he did not think he really minded. The bard reasoned that it was all right – that it must have been so – for the warmth of Vattier’s approval seeping it’s way into his chilled bones as he devoured his emotions was almost enough for Jaskier to feel good again.

If such was not the case, he supposed concentrating on his the coarse leather of the reigns felt beneath his fingers – the feel of _something_ real and grounding – might have made up for it.

Maybe, somewhere, he thought distantly, Jaskier wished he might have been able to indulge them still, sing for them like he once had in taverns and bars and banquets, pouring his heart into his every note with careless abandon as he lived through his music. He knew not, any longer, how do to that, for life seemed so out of reach for a man who merely existed.

“They probably wouldn’t understand, huh Pegasus? At least you make for nice company.” He said, a fond smile stretching his lips as he ran one hand in her mane. Pegasus was nice, she never asked anything of him.

“You talk to your horse now, too?”

Jaskier felt his heart skip a beat as he startled at the voice, breath shortening as he turned around to the side, not having expected company, least of all-

“Ah, Geralt!” He said, quickly, for last he remembered, he’d been at the head of their procession, and Roach had been ignoring the more boisterous horses around her like the proud lady she was, hadn’t he? How far gone must he have been to not even notice him until now?

Jaskier did not think he wished to find out.

Nor did he try to read too much into the very slight quick of the Witcher’s lips at his name – Geralt had always done that, had he not? – If the tide washed ashore the faint pain of nostalgia, as Jaskier remembered how easily his old friend had indulged, like this, in his companionship once upon a time, he let himself have it, for it was a nice distraction from the other emotions currently fighting for a place in his soul. His nostalgia and wistfulness were his own, born out of his own experiences and whose roots were had in his own heart.

It was almost nice, to have something to call his.

It was not the same, of course, Geralt’s company might have been familiar, something Jaskier could remember living in his blood and upon his skin, but what they had now – this distant… _Friendhsip?_ Could he still call it as such, was it still his place to do so? – it was not exactly the mirror of what it had once been, the warmth and heartfelt of what they’d shared was lacking, and Geralt’s presence beside him had a certain stillness to it.

It was, nonetheless, nice to see him more at ease than he had been last night, Jaskier noted, for Geralt seemed far more in his element out here, among the trees and the wilderness, a relaxed hunch to his shoulders almost as he trusted Roach to guide him along. The little imperfections he chose to let them all bear witness to were good things, were they not?

Were he not under such pressure, he might have entertained the thought, might have been of a mind that it was worthwhile, musing on how one’s imperfections contributed to the unique nature of the individual, and how Geralt made for _quite_ the unique encounter.

_Julian, the Child._

Right, yes, the princess, little Cirilla of Cintra. He probably ought to have asked Geralt about her already instead of wasting his time debating questions of morality – it was easier when he need not think, when he knew Vattier’s desires were his own, there was no need to question such things was there?

Except for the fact that, in his heart of hearts, Jaskier did not think he truly wished to know anything pertaining to the poor girl at all.

“Is it all right, if I’m here?”

He looks back up, sharply, at the question, to a hint of confusion distorting Geralt’s features, an upturned brow at the question that had caught him so off guard, not for the first time. The Witcher had asked him the same thing in the stables of Visima, and he remembered, still, how his hand had stilled over Pegasus’ flank at the unexpected nature of it all. People tended not to linger upon such trivial concerns, if they desired his company, Jaskier merely gave and they took, why waste time with _asking?_

Much like back then, the weight of his answer felt laden with expectation, the decision upon his shoulders a heavy burden for him to bear. Jaskier was not used to making decisions, had learned to go wherever the winds of Vattier’s desires took him and find comfort in doing as he was told, in not having to think too much about it all, for he knew he was well cared for.

Geralt’s question was so simple, and yet the sheer magnitude of what it meant, to make a choice such as this, threatened to suffocate him right there and then. What was he to do? What was the right move to make?

 _Vattier, what should I do?_ He thought, sought out the placidity of his wisdom through their bond and would have sobbed in relief when he was gifted it were it not unbecoming of his stature. The answer came not to him in words, then – probably because the viscount had none to spare him, right then, no doubt engrossed in serious political matters with another lord – but in the confidence he gifted him, as the winds bowed down to kiss the waves, the warmth of their gesture soothing their trembling.

It was all right to indulge in Geralt’s company for a little while _(moderation, Julian, always),_ and if Jaskier could get something out of it, well he supposed that would be all the better.

If the knowledge that he was abusing of Geralt’s kindness, using his company to get something out of him when their friendship had once been free of the constraints of utilitarianism, sat heavily in Jaskier’s heart, it was nothing for the Witcher to concern himself with.

“Of course you can stay, if you like.” He said, the words bitter upon his tongue.

Geralt looked to him, raised a dubious eyebrow, “Are you sure? If you wish to be alone, I can leave you to it.” He offered, and once again, Jaskier felt like suffocating, for he knew neither what to say nor how to decide, so used had he become to go where he was told and act like he was bid to – no, like he _wanted_ to, his body was still his, was it not?

His hands twitched, around his reigns, and when Jaskier tensed, his legs responded, muscles contracting around his saddle – yes, his body was still his, this was what _he_ wanted, and with a little more reassurance, he said, “I’d like you to stay, Geralt.”

“Then stay I shall.” The Witcher said, warmth in his voice and a relieved smile in the traits around his eyes. It was good, that he felt as such, Jaskier thought, remembered how long it had taken Geralt to rid himself of the permanent frown as he’d learnt how to allow himself to smile more. The indulgence of his wellbeing seemed timid, still, like it had not been a craft he’d kept practicing after they’d parted ways, but the ghosts of what he’d learnt still lingered, and the bard could only hope his friend let himself go a little more, for did everyone not deserve a little softness in their lives, at some point?

He would have written his consideration down, once upon a time, probably pestered Geralt with a thousand questions about Witchers, their nigh non-existent emotions and wondered aloud if, one day, a Witcher with feelings might come into fruition.

Such philosophical concerns were no longer for him to wonder about, however, for a far more practical question sat heavily upon his tongue, awaiting but his permission to be asked aloud. Jaskier thought he might wait a little longer, let himself have this little control over his own body while he still had it.


	10. X

“For someone who once longed for tales of grand adventures, I thought you would have been more open in your exuberance.” Geralt noted after a while, tried to fill the silence with some of the fancy words he’d learnt when travelling with him, it was a discreet but thoughtful gesture, and it made his heart ache to see that the Witcher seemed to have kept the embers of a past they’d shared together alight in his absence. Jaskier wished, perhaps, that he could tend to it by his side, blow new life into the relics of what they had once been, but instead, Geralt’s words made his skin prickle with their unfamiliarity, like he remembered not, how it felt, to travel alongside him anymore.

Jaskier knew it was _good,_ he merely could not remember how _good_ felt in his body. He supposed he must have lost that, too, at some point during the past year, the emotions plucked from his heart and replaced with emptiness and the occasional feelings of another – a viscount’s profound appreciation for the arts and his tailored gardens, his light-heartedness when they strolled through them together, talk of the sacking of Cintra as easy upon his lips as considerations on what constituted the colour purple, or his fulfilment in the early hours of the morning, after a night spent in his bed, sharing with him both his heart and his body. Jaskier knew all of those things to be good, too, yet his heart felt nothing.

“You must be sorely mistaken, then,” He said, trying to give a light lilt to his voice, even if music flowed not as easily from him as it once had, “I have merely learnt a little restraint in our time apart, Geralt. I was always _too much,_ before, as I’m sure you can recall.”

“Hmm,” For indeed, Geralt _did_ remember, fond memories of a bard who had barely met him and had already decided to open his arms to him, embrace him like he was not some abject monster cursed to live on the outskirts of humanity. He’d hit him, then, shown him violence for he’d known not, how to react to kindness when it was not a Witcher’s privilege to receive from humans, and still, Jaskier had chosen to further freely gift him his company and compassion. He’d given him noise, too, and a lot of it – oh so irritating at first, when Geralt had been used to Roach and his quiet ways and Jaskier had had seemingly little regard for his habitus. His need to comment on everything, his incessant desire to drag a conversation out of him, the talking in his sleep, even, when they shared a room in an inn, Geralt had thought it infuriating, once, an entirely new emotion set alight in his heart, blazing and burning bright until Geralt had learnt to control it, made it malleable in his hands and transformed it into something along the lines of fondness and appreciation.

For, truth be told, he’d not really minded, in the end. When at last Jaskier’s voice had truly reached him and curbed the harsh edges Geralt had built around himself, when he’d learnt to see beyond what he’d considered to be empty talk and witness for himself how the bard’s words captured his love for flowers, trees and people, for endless places, an infinity of emotions Geralt would never experience in his lifetime, experiences they’d shared together on the Path and _life_ itself, Geralt had let the foreign feeling grow in his chest, let himself have what must have been an unquenchable thirst for life. He’d not realized, at first, what it was he’d been gifted with, no until he’d shunned it away with venomous words he’d not thought through beforehand.

He’d put an end to it, brutal and sudden at the top of a mountain nearly a year ago, sent Jaskier away and nearly folded back into his silent habitudes – probably would have, had it not been for little Ciri and his brothers.

Jaskier’s newfound reserve, Geralt might have welcomed it, once upon a time, when ignorance of how one’s words and one’s language could enhance life and bring a little light to it. Now, however, after knowing what it was like, to go back to silence, he did not think he was so keen to, did not think he much liked his quiet company and his subdued demeanour.

“Restraint is good,” He was saying, “Exercising restraint means one has control over oneself, and control of oneself is important, Vattier says.”

If Geralt noticed Jaskier not looking his way as he said so, he thought it better not to comment on it, thought it to no doubt be par of this newfound restraint of his too. Geralt did not think he liked it very much, for _Jaskier_ and _restraint_ together made for a living oxymoron, the very nature of one making it incompatible with the other. He remembered Jaskier as being excessive – too much – in his very being, from the way his entire body commanded attention when he sang, with his expensively embroidered doublets and ridiculous hats to the words he chose with care, infused with meaning and let poetry speak for himself. Jaskier had definitely shown little to no restraint afterwards, when he’d come back to their table, would talk enough for both of them and would not shut up until the moon had risen outside and they were both in bed. Jaskier had never been one for silence, Geralt had quickly gathered that merely a few weeks after the bard had chosen to latch onto him, discreetness had never been in his nature, and while the Witcher certainly would not have been opposed to Jaskier learning a little humility at times, he did not think he’d ever have wished for it to come like this, at the expense of who he was.

“There is a difference between restraint and silence.” He said, for Geralt knew all too well the chasm that existed between those two words, lived and breathed them every day, as he kept his words few, but let his body speak a language of it’s own when his hands wrapped around the hilt of a weapon or the used leather of Roach’s reigns. He knew when to hold firm, knew when to put pressure, just like Geralt was well versed in knowing when to speak and when to keep silent: he might never have been one for idle talk, but words were still his to hold and use, the art of language was one he still mastered, and worryingly better than Jaskier, it would seem.

“Since when did you become attached to semantics?” He asked him, a hint of levity in his tone, and Geralt almost wished it was like before, easy banter and endless talk on the nature of silence – on the nature of anything, really, as long as Jaskier _talked,_ used that tongue he was so fond of.

“I must confess, I learnt from the best. I once had quite a talkative traveling companion, I find myself wondering where he’s gone.”

 _He’s right here,_ Jaskier ached to say, for despite who he had become in their time apart, he was still _Jaskier,_ he was still _himself,_ his body and soul still held the memories of what they had shared together, what they had said, how it had all felt. Jaskier remembered it all, still, and treasured it in the early hours of the morning, when he was free to muse on whatever he wished. Most often, his thoughts had strayed to Geralt, Roach and their travels, had strayed to warm meals shared in the corner of an inn late in the evening, the rain pouring outside or to the bright spark of a fire at their camp, Jaskier readying the spit as Geralt prepared what he had managed to catch them – he still had those, and nothing could ever take away the memory of what he’d experienced. That he’d grown to be more reserved, well that had been his choice.

“I’m still here, Geralt, exactly like you left me that day on the mountain.” He said, shrugging, for what else was he to add? How could he _not_ be Jaskier when it was the very essence of who he was? One did not simply… _Cease to be,_ life was but an incessant series of changes, of course Geralt could not expect him to remain the same. “Are you implying I’m somehow an impostor, a doppler? I ought to be offended by such wild accusations, really.”

“No, of course you’re _you,_ Jaskier, I meant not to imply otherwise” Geralt said, remembered with worrying clarity how subdued Jaskier had been at the banquet – from the hunch in his shoulders to the lack of spark in his voice - how he’d not itched to join the performers, and had talked of being severed from his craft with far too much detachment, like it meant nothing to him. “You told me you stopped singing because your viscount didn’t like it, does he muzzle you too? Not allow you to speak unless he’s amenable to it also?”

He was being unfair, and he knew it.

He did not have the heart to take back his words either, if it was what it took to push Jaskier to talk, he thought he was about ready do anything.

“Vattier isn’t _mine,_ Geralt.” Jaskier said, eyes locked ahead, no doubt on the very subject they were discussing. That it stung that he could not look his way was only fitting, he thought, not for the first time. “He is his own person, you know, like anyone on this Continent, nobody belongs to anybody else and nobody _should.”_

“Yet soulmates belong to each other, do they not?”

“I…” Caught off-guard, Jaskier took a moment to find his words. That they had so easily come to him before where now they escaped him had not gone unnoticed by Geralt either, there seemed to be a lot he remembered of his once travel companion that seemed to have been laid to rest during their time apart was not a comforting notion in the least, “It’s not quite like that, you’re making it sound like I’m his pet, like he _owns_ me. It’s not like that, we _choose_ to freely give who we are to each other. I realize now that I may have been too hasty in my words, the other day, it is not that he forbids me from singing, it is just that he likes, shall we say, more controlled performances than what I used to give.”

“I do not follow,” Geralt said, brow creasing in confusion.

“The less you have of something, the more precious it is, the more you appreciate the short time you _do_ have it. The shorter my singing, the easier it is for him to linger on the words I use or to pick apart the rhythm I give them, the lilt and intonation, the meaning between the silences. It is a game of the intellect, an art in and of itself, if you will.”  
Geralt still understood not, knew that what Jaskier and the viscount shared would never be in touching distance in his lifetime, a soul bond far too delicate a thing for his crude hands to hold. And yet, if he thought back to that morning, when he’d suggested that the bard keep his songs for a later use, he would have been lying were he to say that he’d not felt the tension in the air between the two men – _anyone_ could have felt that, be they versed in the art of reading people or not.

“Was that what you two were playing at this morning, a game? You did not seem all that keen on singing back then.”

“I…” Jaskier said, for perhaps it was true. Perhaps he hadn’t wanted to sing… But Jaskier didn’t _want_ for things anymore, did he? Oh this was all so confusing. “I was tired, slept little, like I told you at the stables. As you know all too well, a luxurious bed and another man to share it with can make for quite the exhausting night.” He shrugged, the half-truth easy upon his tongue.

Geralt, for his part, did not need more details. “Right,” He said, a little too quickly, felt all too acutely this new distance that seemed to exist between them as Jaskier talked of the casual intimacy they’d once had that he now shared with another man. The thorns of their romantic closeness pricked his heart, bled in his chest, but the Witcher thought it not to be jealousy, for jealousy was sharp, acerbic and venomous, it was said to burn in one’s breast and turn one’s being sour – Geralt had divested himself of such a thing long ago, his  
body remembered not how to feel it, envy had not been his to hold in far too many years.

Perhaps it was closer to a distant longing, then, as Jaskier talked so easily of sharing affection with his soulmate, like it was normal, like he knew not that Geralt, Witcher mutations running in his blood and now at the very core of who he was, could never hope to be deserving of such softness, would have to find his fulfilment in Roach’s gentle nuzzles and the soft curb of Ciri’s smiles instead.

“How did you, you know… Get to where you are?” He asked instead, eager to be lead astray of his fruitless considerations, for there was little to gain at contemplating the impossible. “I thought you held no love for Nilfgaard.”

“I… It’s complicated, Geralt,” Jaskier said, biting his lip, took a moment to finger the little golden suns embroidered upon his cuff. Geralt thought he might have missed the rich blues of his old doublets. “The Nilfgaardians, they’re _trying_ to change – of course they are, the Emperor would not have sent a delegation all the way down here with one of his most trusted advisors if he did not truly believe in peace, would he?”

He chuckled at his own doubts, as if he’d somehow learnt to forego his worries for they meant very little, but there was no musicality to it. Jaskier’s voice sounded hollow, his poetry wrung out of him, and upon the pommel of his saddle, he noticed his hand twitch.

“We met at a banquet, in Toussaint.” He continued, eyes still locked upon the lush grass ahead of them and not once acknowledging him. Geralt hoped it was not a conscious effort on his part. “It was not too long after… You know, that dragon hunt. After I made my way down, I erred from one place to the next, really, sang where people were amenable and left when they were not. Then there were a couple of banquets of the fancier kind here and there, and that’s where I met him. I didn’t exactly catch his name the first couple of nights, but we eventually got talking, and he said he could use my talents to perhaps try and mend relations between Nilfgaard and Redenia, since I grew up there. The whole soulmates business happened shortly after, and then we decided to bond.” Jaskier shrugged, and truly, when he put it that way, it really did seem simple, like perhaps they had been meant to meet in a way the bard and he had not been, Geralt all too aware that it had been naught but a chance encounter of the most mundane kind.

Still, it seemed so ill-fitting to him, a bright minstrel like Jaskier bound to some painfully stoic highborn Nilfgaardian noble.

“Really, you’re truly soulmates then?” He asked, his earlier scepticism coming back tenfold, for as much as he may have witnessed they union in the mundane things they did together every day, Geralt could still not make sense of it all. _What the fuck was Jaskier doing with Nilfgaard?_

“I know,” He told him, the gentle understanding he’d always so easily gifted him still intact, even now, “I thought it to be improbable at first too, but what can I say? Life is full of surprises, Geralt, don’t you think?”

The Witcher tried not to linger on how easily such an affirmation fell from Jaskier’s lips, like it was not his place to doubt or seek to perhaps question the kind of company he indulged in, like it was not his place to see in the man one of the many responsible for unspeakable horrors unleashed upon the Continent. Geralt had no doubt that the Viscount must have, in some capacity of another, a certain responsibility in the horrifying nightmares Ciri was plagued with. Even if he’d not dealt the killing blow himself, even if he’d not been present at the sacking of Cintra, the Witcher knew, deep down in his bones, that someone of his ranking would undoubtedly have known the levels of destruction and trauma suck an armed assault would have.

Jaskier’s easy acceptance of it all sat heavily, in his heart. Where was the bard who had once balked at the very notion of Queen Calanthe and her kingdom ever bending the knee to the South, a tremor of fear in his voice as he’d so readily disputed Yarpen Zigrin’s claim?

Geralt had a moment to wish, perhaps, for him to come back before he thought better of it. This journey they were all embarked on was a peace mission, and a pretty significant step towards a cordial reconciliation between the kingdoms. This went far beyond Ciri and what she had suffered, and a Witcher’s selfish paranoia of the Southerners borne out of affection for his child surprise had no place here, just because he liked them not did not mean he was entitled to force Jaskier to think like him. The bard was free to think as he pleased, and if he had come to adopt other customs and views to his in their time apart, well who was Geralt to tell him he was wrong?

Still, the man was of _Nilfgaard_ \- of all places for Jaskier to get tangled up in - and while Geralt wished he could respect his friend’s ability to makehis own choices and trust in his self-determination, this seemed a tad to outlandish, even for him. “You really don’t mind, that he’s from Nilfgaard?”

Jaskier, for his part, thought he might have, once, a long time ago, back when it he’d still been able to hold opinions and have wants. He’d learnt better in Vattier’s care, of course, when the man had told him – _asked_ him – to perhaps _stop giving it so much thought –_ they were all men, at the end of the day, what did it matter, what kingdom they hailed from? - Besides, his time in Eiddon had taught him to reconsider his infantile views, to open himself up to something other, for it was not all bad. Nilfgaard had so much to offer, had arts and music like in the North, and both of them inspired such love in the viscount when he talked of them – an affection Jaskier understood entirely too well, for he too, had sold his heart to the arts when he’d been but a teenager, studying in Oxenfurt, had never regretted his first great love either.

Vattier’s affections were heightened, however, he did not merely _love,_ he was consumed by it, gave himself so completely to what it was he adored so and poured his heart and soul into it with such devotion that an artist like Jaskier could not help but be envious of him. While he’d been barred from reciting much poetry in Eiddon, he’d listened, as the other man poured his entire being out in recitals and verses, had vicariously learnt to live through his emotions after they’d bonded, when Jaskier had learnt to appreciate the incurable romantic that occasionally lay beneath his skin. The man had very fine tastes, of that, there was little doubt, so what did it matter, really, where he hailed from?

If only Jaskier could convince him that he needed not to go after the little girl with such ruthlessness in an effortless quest to prove his loyalty to his Emperor, the bard could almost reconcile his feelings for the viscount.

“If there is one thing I learnt from our travels together, Geralt, it is that there are far worse men than him out there. The Empire is honestly trying to make amends with this expedition. Would you fault all of the Nilfgaardians here for the sins of one man?”

For a moment, Geralt wanted to say _yes,_ and were he not in better control of himself, he would have said so without an ounce of hesitation. He would have said _yes_ because Nilfgaard was why Ciri had yet to be freed of her night terrors, the poor princess having awoken more often than not with a whimper upon her lips as memories of pain and destruction a child so young ought never to have experienced still scarring her soul. It had been so easy for Geralt and his brothers to blame all of her trauma on the Empire in those moments. It had mattered not, to them, that much like every other kingdom, only those at the top of the ruling class were the ones responsible, for it had been far easier for them to see every man clad in black armour as guilty, from then on. They’d sentenced them, too, when the Nilfgaardians had grown more cunning, had sniffed them out with far more skill than Geralt had thought them capable of, thought nothing of bringing death to men merely carrying gout orders given to them, orders they were no doubt executing out of a sense of duty towards a country they loved.

Nilfgaardians had been monsters, to them, they did not deserve to love, to hold the complexity of human emotions and the duality of their spirits, it had been so much easier for the Witchers to dehumanize them and slaughter them where they lay, no questions of morality to linger upon. They had traumatized Ciri, they deserved punishment. It was difficult for him, then, to reconcile those same monsters with the viscount, bound to Jaskier in both body and soul.

Geralt knew better than to trust the man and his words, knew that for Ciri’s safety, it was best he not place any expectations upon him until a real truce between the kingdoms had been signed – the words of men were ethereal and so easily open to interpretation, it was best to wait until the Lords had put it all into writing.

And yet, he had to remain diplomatic and carefully weigh his every word, that he could not allow himself to talk freely even with Jaskier. It felt wrong – oh _so wrong_ – to be cautious around the bard when Jaskier had been the first one that had gotten through to him, thanks to whom Geralt had relit the faint embers of the embalmed vestiges of his emotions and brought them to life - and was that not such an immense debt to owe, to be brought back to oneself? - twisted his insides and made little bittersweets sprout from the between the cracks, the pale ghost of his emotions a faded purples upon their petals.

“No, you’re right, I would not fault him for the vices of his countrymen,” He said, although it tasted bitter upon his tongue, a half-truth he wished he could fully believe. In his heart of hearts, Geralt of course knew that all Nilfgaardians were not the same, just like all Witchers bore independent traits born out of who they were. “It’s hard though, his brethren still traumatised Ciri.”

Jaskier felt himself seize, barely restrained himself as he felt something lurch in his chest, a ravenous hunger set alight by the mere mention of the princess _\- fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck!_ He did not need any words to be said for him to know that it wasn’t just him and Geralt anymore.

For a moment, fleeting and gone before he could seize it in between his fingers, Jaskier considered pulling away, considered digging his heels into Pegasus’ side and just turn back, ride as far away from Geralt and the damning knowledge he was all too willing to share with him, oblivious to those who preyed upon his words in the shadows. This was far too soon for the bard to see to his orders, for how was it fair for him to betray his friend merely weeks after finding him again, when they’d not even shared a single decent conversation between them?

 _I can’t do that to him, I can’t! It wouldn’t be fair!_ He thought, frantic, fingers worrying at the worn leather of Pegasus reigns as he tried to come up with something – _anything_ – but the girl.

_You must, Julian, it is what you are here for, now, remember?_

Sometimes, Jaskier wished that, perhaps, Vattier was not so knowledgeable in the art of choosing his words, for the obligation and the sense of urgency that belay his tone set his skin alight, burned in his breast and made his heart race as a blistering need that begged for his attention bloomed in his chest. Fuck, did it _hurt._

_Ask him, Julian, you want to ask him, do you not?_

He did.

He didn’t.

It was all so confusing to him, still, how he could never say where his aspirations ended and Vattier’s began. Most days he did not mind all that much, thought even that he might have enjoyed the vicarious experience of feeling the viscount’s endless love for the arts and the sensitivities one oft found in the world of poetry. This time was not like most days, this was _painful,_ was not pleasant in the slightest.

“You met her?” He found himself asking, words he did not remember thinking spilling from his lips in an attempt to soothe the aching burn in his heart, “Your child surprise?”

The question tasted bitter upon his tongue, and if Jaskier had not been feeling an intense want to know the answer, then perhaps he would have briefly thought the opposite – _please, don’t answer that!_

“Hmm, I have,” Geralt said, his features softening as he said so, the pinches lines around his eyes relaxing somewhat and Jaskier thought that might even have been the hint of a rare smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Those had been rare, he could have counted on one hand the times he’d stolen a glance Geralt’s way when the Witcher smiled one of those – usually reserved for Roach – and truly, he wished his ill-intentions had not been the reason behind it. How awful it was of him to abuse of Geralt’s kind nature, taint what was his with ambitions and plans he would never wish for the poor princess just waiting to be fulfilled. “Her and Yennefer both, actually. She’s helped quite a lot in Ciri’s training.”

He perked up at that, “You’ve met Yennefer too?” He asked, perhaps too eagerly. In Jaskier’s books, anything was better than the another with about the girl.

“I have,” Geralt said, taking a moment to consider his next words, “I think destiny has linked us, somehow, since the djinn incident, for our paths have crossed many a time since through no making of our own. She still hasn’t forgiven me for it, not entirely,” He added, more sombre, voice laden with a newfound maturity, his entire posture more sullen, weighed down by some sense of guilt no doubt. “I understand why now, I think.”

“And why is that?” He asked, voice barely above a whisper so unwilling was he to break the sobering quietude that had settled between them.

“Back in Rinde, after she healed your wound, she wrestled with the djinn, tried to control it. It nearly cost her her life too, for it turned out that I was the master of the djinn, not you. Of course, I wished not to see her come to harm over it, which she would have had she pursued her venture.” At Jaskier’s nod, he continued, “In my haste to save her, I made a wish, I used my last one to save her, and she was furious.”

“Yennefer was furious with you for saving her life? What, she didn’t fancy a strong Witcher coming to her rescue?” Geralt tried not to think too much on how Jaskier’s casual humour was found lacking in his words.

“No, Yennefer is plenty capable of taking care of herself, it wasn’t that. It was… Her lack of _choice_ in the matter, I think. It was how my decision to bind our fates to save her took away her choice, she did not get to choose to spend her life with mine, we are forced to come together now because of what _I_ did.” He said, guilt colouring his words for the weight of such a wrong was heavy still, upon his shoulders, and while Yennefer and he had become more cordial – might one day relight a friendship of the heart, for Geralt had no doubt that they were working towards it – he knew such a misgiving would take time to mend.

“It was far beyond just saving her life however, I made her doubt everything she felt, by taking away her choice, I made her doubt her very sense of self. It was wrong of me to do it, to make that decision for her, I’ve tried to be more accommodating since.”

Yennefer had told him, of course, that she was grateful he’d saved her life, that she understood the reasons behind his decision, even if she’d not liked the outcome, had also threatened to cut off his balls were he ever to think of doing such an idiotic thing ever again. They had had time to talk it over, when she’d come to Kaer Mohren for Ciri, the princess having helped immeasurably to thaw the ice between them. And along with a little nudging from Vesemir and Triss, the acerbic bite of old hurts had been laid to rest, and it was an adventure still, to figure out what they now were – somewhere between acquaintances and friends, a happy middle Geralt was willing to accept however long Yennefer needed him to.

He was grateful that, much like Jaskier, she still chose to see in him a friend despite his misgivings towards her. The little spark they once had indulge in had died, a chapter they had decided to mutually close, and while Geralt might never have told her aloud, he might have been something akin to what humans liked to call _happy_ – only not fully, not really, for he could never feel such a thing in its entirety – as he watched from afar as Yennefer opened a new segment of her existence with the sorceress Triss Merigold. He supposed that after her life of hardships and the patchwork of scars she had to show for it, that Yennefer had more than earned a little softness in her life.

“She’ll forgive you eventually, Yennefer that is.” Jaskier said, both of them sharing a knowing look: the sorceress was a free spirit, who liked not to be caged by the ambitions and choices of others. “Just… Give her time, I suppose, let her decide when to do it.”

“Hmm,” Geralt agreed, “You’re probably right. “She has ample time to ponder on it too, I’m sure. What with keeping that little shop in Rinde in addition to commandeering the mayor’s house, she’s made quite the quaint little life for herself when she’s not at the fort. Lambert took a fancy to her the first time she came, tried to charm he into his bed. Yennefer walloped him on the head and threatened to castrate him in front of Vesemir.”

Jaskier snorted, unable to help himself. Trust the sorceress to have no qualms threatening one of Geralt’s brothers.

“Triss added that she would cut his balls and cauterize the wound herself were he to make a move on Yennefer too.”

“I’m certain sorceresses make for quite the intimidating deterrents.” He mused, remembered still, how Yennefer had threatened him with something similar when he’d first awoken in her bed. Were he to be honest, he did not think he’d quite recovered from it yet either.

“That they do.” Geralt sighed, a lightness to his voice Jaskier observed. It might have been nice, even. “She hopes Ciri will take after her. The little devil is already bossing my brothers around like she was born to do it, we even have bets on how long it will take Vesemir to cave. Ciri can be quite the irresistible little shit.”

The girl’s name had but barely past his lips and in his chest, Geralt’s lips still curbed softly at the edges where he was smiling, and Jaskier wished he could honestly appreciate it, no strings attached. Instead, he found himself abruptly jerking on Pegasus’ reigns – the horse not appreciating it in the slightest - as Jaskier felt something continue to claw in his chest, the sharp tendrils of an insatiable hunger not entirely his own desperate for ever _more_ about the girl.

Fuck.

Fuck. Fuck. _Fuck._

And just like that, Jaskier knew that whatever privacy Geralt and he might have been afforded was no more once again, vanished before he might have been able to appreciate it fully. Of course, he thought, of course he ought to have expected the mere mention of the princess to lure the viscount out of his slumber, Vattier was always listening, for Jaskier had let him become _part_ of him after all.


	11. XI

His breathing quickened as his chest constricted, and desperate for something to take his mind off whatever Geralt was saying, Jaskier let his fingers grow restless around the leather of his reigns and tried to listen to the song his fingers sang when brushing against the coarse fabric. It did little, of course, to appease the unpleasant pressure building inside – maybe the vibrant greens of the tops of the trees, the way the sun sparkled as it seeped through the leaves and painted them a rich golden colour instead, an art in and of itself, or the distant sound of birds singing ahead of them, a soft melody carried to them upon the gentle breeze might have done the trick. Alas it was not so.

_The Child, Julian, we need her. You understand, do you not, how much rests upon our shoulders?_

He did, if the heavy craving for princess Cirilla burning his insides was anything to go by. It was unpleasant, soured what had meant to be something genuine between him an Geralt with lies and deceit, and Jaskier knew, then, as he chanced a look Geralt’s way – Geralt who was leaned back, relaxed, who seemed to find something nice in telling him about his young ward, if the gentle fondness in his voice as to be believed, Geralt who knew nothing of his treachery – that the Witcher deserved not for him to taint her in such a way.

“… I think the most surprising of all, however, was that she chose to stay with me,” He was saying, Jaskier having missed the beginning of his sentence. He did not think he really minded all that much. “She did not run away from me, when I found her wandering amidst the trees. Actually, she was the one who came to me, who did not see me like some monster, who hugged me before we’d even uttered a word to each other.” Jaskier watched, as Geralt brushed his side, no doubt the lingering memory of a touch upon his self rising, unbidden, as he said so. “She’s like that with my brothers too, curbs their hard edges, treats us like people and learnt to wrap us around her little finger too.”

He chuckled, happiness evident in the creases around his eyes, lines born of fond memories Geralt had more than earned at this point, Jaskier thought. He bit his lip as he kept talking, stories of sword training and meals shared around a warm fire, of a stone fortress housing cold relics of a hard past that had, at some point, turned into a warm home with the care of a child and the soft tendrils of her compassion.

Jaskier stiffened, dug his heels into Pegasus’ side, wished he could order her far away where Geralt’s words could not reach him. He knew he was not allowed to.

_Ask him more about her, Little Flower, might as well start early, gather as much information as we can._

He wanted to know more about Cirilla, he _craved_ it like a man starving for even the slightest morsel of bread, an emptiness in his heart begging to be filled with such warm tales, and Jaskier felt cold sweat run down his back, chilling him to the bones, for it was absolutely horrifying how _much_ he desired it.

“What,” He swallowed, wished perhaps he could stop himself from saying anything further. His hunger for knowledge won out, of course, for his body was too frail, his mind too weak, to have much put up much of a fight. “What is she like, your Princess? Surely, after the grand theatrics you went through to get her, you’ll indulge an old friend his questions?”

His feigned light-heartedness tasted like bitter ash upon his tongue, and Jaskier felt a piece of himself wilt as the words left him, the roots of fragile weeds dug up by the winds once again so unable were they to keep standing. The pressure around his heart released, however, and if the wind took with it a part of his soul, Jaskier supposed he minded not when he found himself able to breathe again, for as long as he still drew breath, he still existed, could try, perhaps, to rebuild what he’d lost given a little time. It wasn’t so bad, really.

He allowed himself to feel the approval Vattier sent his way as it seeped into his skin as compensation. It was warm, if perhaps a little cloying.

“Ciri is…” Geralt started, “It is quite difficult to describe Ciri,” He said, frowning, for as much as he cared for the girl, the words came not easily to him to describe her, for how could mere words do justice to everything it was that made Ciri, well, who she was? An absolute whirlwind, Ciri was not one to let herself be entrapped in what people wished her to be, had quite a regal determination about her for a girl so young. As ambitious as she was poised, as ruthless with her sword as she could be gentle with Yennefer’s potions, as viscous taking down a drowner as she could be exuberant when Eskel praised her, the traits of her face and her heart were home to so much emotion, it was difficult to define it with a word, really. “She sees us old crusted Witchers as people, treats us as such too, like we’re not mutated monsters, it’s not always easy for us to accept. She’s brought a little humanity back into the old walls of the fort. It’s nice… I think. She’s become quite her own person in her time there. You’d like her, I think.”

And maybe he was offering for Jaskier to come back with him, maybe Geralt did let the faint emotions in his heart speak for him as he said so, even if he’d never outright admit it.

“Ciri is gentle, she’s strong and kind, and she’s somehow managed to remain compassionate, despite the unspeakable horrors the world has thrown her way. It takes a lot of strength, for someone so young to choose not to let bitterness take hold of them, I’ve seen many a stronger man than her too easily succumb to those darker urges in themselves. Perhaps, after this is all over, we could go there together, Vesemir would not be opposed.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you,” Jaskier said.

 _Please don’t,_ he thought.

“Perhaps I’ll give it some thought, once all of this is over.”

Jaskier had had to look away, thought it unbecoming of him to share with Geralt the sting of bitterness gathering in the corner of his eyes, how it would fracture the world and  
melt away if he let it roll down upon his cheek.

Jaskier was better than that, had learnt to control himself, did not let himself be so easily swayed by the vestiges of what sentiment he still had.

Instead, he looked to the trees, the sound of their rustling branches as the wind played them together or when a little bird happened to flitter through them in search of twigs a nice distraction, and along with the steady rhythm of Pegasus’ hooves beneath him and the breeze in his hair, it made for, dare he say it, a nice symphony, if a little off key. It soothed not the burn in his chest, flaring up in anger now at being denied knowledge it so desperately craved, but Jaskier just could to bring himself to do it.

He heaved, bit his lip in a futile attempt to keep his whimpering to himself so unbecoming was it for their entourage, wished perhaps that he could just order Geralt to just _please shut up!_ He could not, however, for Jaskier had indeed quite forgotten how to wield anger and frustration, emotions he’d divested himself from over the past year, feelings his body no longer knew how to express. Besides, Geralt deserved not his ire, not when his talk of his child surprise was born out of fondness and genuine care for the girl.

_You should listen to him, Julian. Listen and we can make this all stop, just ask him. We want this, after all._

Jaskier wanted to, the urge begging him for satisfaction all but pulling him towards those few words. Jaskier was a master orator, he knew it would be but a quick question were he to ask, knew, also, that Geralt – poor naïve and all too-trusting of him Geralt – would no doubt indulge his curiosity were he to seek a tale or two out of him. Abusing of his kind nature in such a way when the Witcher would suspect nothing, would not even know of the true intentions belaying his questions, felt so utterly _wrong,_ the bard could not bring himself to voice them. Clenched his fist instead and relished the bite of nails digging into his skin.

If, somewhere, his other half happened to register the pain, Jaskier could not bring himself to care. With a little luck, it might have, perchance, even taken the viscount’s mind off the girl for a little while. It took him a considerable effort, to gain control of himself once again, left him feeling drained and exhausted – but then, Jaskier mused, perhaps a little grimly, when did he feel anything other than that these days? – the gentle baritone of another voice easing his way back to real life.

 _“-askier?_ Jaskier!” There was a hand over his forearm, hand hovering inches above his doublet, but seemed somewhat hesitant to touch him. Jaskier thought he might have been grateful for the distance.

He looked up, to silver hair and golden eyes and a face whose traits he could have written a thousand ballads about with his eyes closed.

“Jaskier, you all right? Is there anything I can do?”

 _Keep quiet, stop talking about Ciri,_ he thought. Jaskier did not have the heart to voice them, his thoughts were rarely appreciated these days anyway.

“No, I’m all right. Just… Feeling a little lightheaded, is all. Nothing for you to worry about, Geralt, I promise.” He said, eyes locked on Geralt’s hand hovering over his sleeve. Jaskier wished he could lean up into it without a second thought, wished he could indulge in their easy companionship like he once had with careless abandon, heedless of what it would feel like to have it taken away from him. Such a reckless gesture was a luxury he no longer could afford, however, would betray a certain lack of control about his person, and if Jaskier had learnt one lesson from his time in Eiddon, it was that control was necessary at all times.

So he allowed not for himself to be overcome by such urges, fought away such weaknesses before they could breech the armour he’d managed to painstakingly craft for himself, let not such slithering temptations lure him into giving up any of his poise.

In the distance, Jaskier felt light rain upon his skin, Vattier praising him for his restraint, and allowed the edge of his lip to curl, just slightly. His handling of the wayward vestiges of his desires pleased him, Jaskier let himself have it.

“It’s nice to hear that you found her,” He grit out, for those were words that Jaskier knew came from him and him _alone,_ and were ones he meant with the upmost sincerity. It was a relief, to know he could still talk from the heart, that he’d not lost that yet to his shared soul and the other conscience he now shared it with. Perhaps it was selfish of him that Jaskier thought he might have liked to nurse such a fragile thing just a little longer, then again, Jaskier had never pretended to be a man of high virtue. “I’m glad you’re all okay.”

Geralt could only watch, confused, for he sensed that something must have been amiss for Jaskier to pull away from him so abruptly. For a moment, he entertained the thought that it might have been him, once again, that the Witcher himself might have said or done something to upset him like he had a year ago, when he’d so thoughtlessly unleashed upon him a storm of misplaced anger and frustration. Jaskier looked at him not like he was to blame, however, and aside from Roach, he could not figure out where he’d gone wrong. “Jaskier, are you all right? Anything I can do?” He offered.

“No, no I’ll be fine, Geralt. But thank you for your concern, it does not go unappreciated. I knew you cared beneath all that tough Witcher skin.” He said, a parody of the easy smile he’d once shared with him distorting his features, and Geralt almost longed for the blankness once again. Jaskier had never lied to him, in the years they had travelled together, had always been one to wear his heart on his sleeve (perhaps too much, at times), to the point Geralt had probably hoped he might one day learn a little restraint. If he’d known what restraint would have done to his bard, Geralt thought bitterly, he did not think he would have ever had such careless thoughts, for the empty shell of his friend rising aside him, who barely looked at him and addressed him with half-truths, was far more bittersweet a companionship than he’d thought it to be. “I’m afraid I must go. I’ll see you around.”

Eyes kept resolutely ahead, Jaskier acknowledged him not, as he gathered his reigns in an unsteady grip, heels digging into his horse’s side as he urged it to depart. Just as quickly as they had drifted into companionship, he was gone, headed no doubt for the head of the procession – to his mate.

Geralt had not heard anything, but had little doubt as to where the pained expression upon Jaskier’s features had come from, tried very hard not to think of how he’d been summoned, like a common dog, instead of sent for with a modicum of dignity, like a person, like he _ought_ to have been.

 _No_ , he corrected himself after a moment, all that was in his head. Jaskier had said he was tired, the lines upon his face attested undoubtedly to his lack of sleep, like he’d told him – Geralt could trust his word, could he not? If the bard wished to leave him, he would have surely done so because he _wanted_ to.

Geralt could not begrudge him that.

* * *

_You should have let him finish, Little Flower._

The name reeked of saccharine-sweet condescension, as Vattier’s voice echoed in his head, his disappointment sitting heavy in his chest. Flowers were delicate things, were beautiful and full of an ephemeral life, they existed purely to adorn and look pretty, to be picked at one’s will and discarded just as easily, nothing of value to them beyond the pleasure they procured to something else.

Jaskier minded not obedience, for his obedience was his and he chose when to flash it. He fancied not the thought of being nothing more than an accessorial thing to somebody else’s story, nothing of value but to be looked at. Their companions made no secret of their wandering gazes, too many eyes burning the skin of his back as Jaskier hastily rode by, head kept low to avoid the questions they undoubtedly desired to ask. Such a public procession was humiliating, Vattier might as well have ordered him aloud to come by his side for all the entertainment it would have brought them.

_Please, don’t call me that._

_I like it, it suits you. I don’t think either of us want a repeat of last time’s argument over it, do we?_

On the coast, the wind howled, snapped and snarled, a beastly sound as it terrorized the sky and sent tremors of fear down Jaskier’s spine, for he felt it, as it’s claws tore into the waves, picking them apart once again as it sought something within him he could not name. Had it not been unbecoming of him, he might have brought a hand to his chest in the hopes of easing the pain somewhat, even if it was just a little, could instead do little else but crisp in anticipation, muttering an apology to Pegasus when he once again pulled too hard on her reigns without meaning it. By Melitele how _terrible_ he was to the poor horse.

Jaskier counted himself lucky it was only wind this time, his body flinching as he remembered how thunder and lightning had scarred him on times he’d upset the viscount far past what had been reasonable.

 _No, we don’t,_ he agreed, docile, let the sea part and welcomed the strong embrace of the winds amidst the waves, let it taint them with their anger and upset. It would all end up drowned at the ocean’s bottom anyway, so what did it really matter if it was unpleasant for a short while?

_When we sealed our bond, we promised to never keep anything from each other, do you remember, Julian?_

Jaskier did, for how could he ever forget? A whispered vow panted into another sweat-slicked body, a promise kept safe between the silk sheets of a bed as two souls had become one. He remembered for it had been the first thing he had said after being bound, he remembered, still, because how could he forget his first words as a split soul?

_I wish not to hurt you, Julian. I take no pleasure in doing this, you know that, do you not?_

Jaskier did also, and besides, how could he ever doubt such a gentle voice? Vattier never meant it, when his emotions got out of hand, he merely had difficulty in controlling them and was always quick to apologize if he happened to take things too far. His remorse had always seemed so genuine, after, when the viscount was confronted with the carnage his emotions had wrought upon him, his guilt palpable through their shared souls for days after. Surely, Jaskier thought, that such attention meant he must care for him and his well-being, that it was not his place to doubt his intentions towards his person when he’d proven time and time again that he loved him.

_Yes, I do._

_You remember, good. I’ll forgive you this transgression, Julian, but do refrain from keeping things from me again._

Jaskier felt it, the gentle breeze of his absolution upon his skin as if the man had caressed his bare shoulder himself, erased his sins with the mere press of his lips. Jaskier felt not any lighter for it, for along with it came, unbidden, memories from last night, a touch for a far different kind from those same hands upon his person, from the skin of his throat be so readily bared at courts and banquets to that which he bared only to him, fingers crawling at his waistband, seeking to claim ever more South. It was the ghost of a nail raking down his spine, another hand around his neck as he poured into him irritation and annoyance, other emotions too, at times, when he could no longer deal with them.

Jaskier didn’t mind, they shared souls after all, was it not normal for them to share their bodies with each other too?

_Do not be ashamed of it, Julian, you enjoyed yourself, in the end. There is no shame to be found in love._

_Ah,_ that was what it had been then, _love._ For a moment, Jaskier thought he must have forgotten the word, how silly of him. And he had enjoyed it, had he not? (He could not remember, truth be told, but if Vattier had said he enjoyed it, Jaskier found no reason to doubt his word).

The wind had stopped, died down, and he suddenly found himself able to breathe again, for no longer was his chest constricted. It was nice, Jaskier knew how to appreciate benevolence when it was gifted to him. So he took it, asked no questions and let himself have it while it was still there for the taking.

_Yes, do as I say, and everything will be fine._

And so Jaskier did, slowed Pegasus down only when they’d once again reached the front of the procession, taking a moment to settle in with Vattier’s rhythm. They exchanged no words for nothing further needed to be said between them, their hearts had already done all of the talking, the bond they shared keeping it secret from all around them, a conspiratorial kind of romance. Jaskier shivered, let the man’s hand find his shoulder and draw strength from him while they touched and did not protest when his fingers trailed down, an ever so slow spider-like gesture upon his doublet.

He felt bare, the pinprick of his nails fire upon his skin, did not fight back when they clawed around his wrist, a silent praise in the gesture as he encircled him once more. Jaskier readily gave himself over to it, as always, and when Vattier gave a slight tug upon his limb, he let himself follow, readily leaned his way.

The brush of his lips against his forehead was tantalizing.

Somewhere, in the distance, another stem snapped and fell, petals sank into the sea, a nameless grave for them to rest.

“I’m glad you are mine.” A murmur so intimate said in front of so many, words that could so easily have been picked up by those who understood not the intricacies of the relationship they shared, yet Jaskier knew they were meant only for him, a rare public display of his affections he hastened to let sink into his skin and warm his shrivelled heart.

Jaskier felt cared for, felt safe, and so said the only thing he could, for he loved the viscount. If gladness was what currently held his heart’s attention so, then so too, ought to entrap his own.

“So am I.” He said, a quiet confession between them, one Jaskier was sure he meant with profound sincerity.

Even if his voice reeked of death.


End file.
